OSY  CORNERS 


'AULINE  PHELPS  AND  MARION  SHORT 


SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  St.,  New  York 


Polly  anna 


The  glad  play,  by  Catherine  Chlsfaolm  Cuahlnff,  after  tfe* 
•ovel  by  Eleanor  H.  Porter.  S  males,  6  females,  t  Interior*. 
Costumes,  modern.  Plays  2*4  hour*.  An  orphan  girl  Is  tanas* 
into  the  home  of  a  maiden  aunt.  In  spite  of  the  trials  that 
beset  her,  she  manages  to  find  something-  to  be  grind  about,  and 
brings  light  Into  sunless  lives.  Finally  Pollyanna  straighten* 
out  the  love  affairs  of  her  elders,  and  finds  happiness  for  herseR 
la  Jimmy.  "Pollyanna"  gives  a  better  appreciation  of  people 
and  Hie  world.  It  reflects  the  humor  and  humanity  that  gave 
the  story  such  wonderful  popularity  among  young  and  old. 

Produced  in  New  York,  and  for  two  seasons  on  tour.  Royalty. 
925.00.  rrlce,  75  cents. 

Martha  By-the-Day 

An  optimistic  comedy  In  3  acts,  by  Julie  M.  Lippmann,  author 
of  the  "Martha"  stories.  5  males,  5  females.  3  Interiors.  Cos- 
tumes, modern.  Plays  2%  hours. 

Full  of  quaint  humor,  okl-fashioned,  homely  sentiment,  the 
kind  that  people  who  see  the  play  will  recall  and  chuckle  over 
tomorrow  and  the  next  day. 

Miss  Lippmann  has  herself  adapted  her  successful  book  for 
the  stage  and  has  selected  from  her  novel  the  most  telling 
Incldents,  infections  comedy  and  homely  sentiment  for  the 
play,  and  the  result  is  thoroughly  delightful,  royalty,  $25. 
Price,  60  cents. 


Seventeen 


A  comedy  of  yoath.  In  4  acts,  by  Booth  Tarklngton.  6  males, 
6  females.  1  exterior,  2  Interiors.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays 
2%  hours. 

It  Is  the  tragedy  of  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  that  be  hae 
ceased  to  be  sixteen  and  Is  not  yet  eighteen.  Seventeen  is  not 
an  age,  it  Is  a  disease. 

In  his  heart  William  knows  all  the  tortures  and  delights  of 
love.  But  he  Is  still  sent  by  his  mother  on  errands  of  the  most 
humiliating  sort  and  depends  on  his  father  for  every  nickel, 
the  use  of  which  he  must  justify  before  he  gets  it. 

"Sflly"  Bill  fell  In  love  with  Lola,  the  "Baby-Talk  Lady." 
a  vapid  Iltt!a  flirt.  To  woo  her  In  a  manner  worthy  of  himself 
(and  of  her)  he  steals  his  father's  evening  clothes.  When  hts 
woolngs  become  a  nuisance  to  the  neighborhood,  his  mother 
steals  them  back,  and  has  them  let  out  to  fit  the  middle-aged 
form  of  her  husband,  thereby  keeping  William  at  home. 

But  when  It  comes  to  the  "Baby-Talk  Lady's"  good-bye 
dance,  not  to  be  present  was  unendurable.  Now  William  agaip 
Bets  the  dress  suit,  and  how  he  wears  it  at  the  party,  and 
Genesis  discloses  the  fact  that  the  proud  garment  Is  In  reality 
his  father's  makes  up  the  story  of  the  play. 

"Seventeen"  Is  a  work  of  exquisite  human  sympathy  and 
delicious  humor.  Royalty,  925.00.  Price,  75  cents. 

BAMTTKL  FRENCH.  25  West  45th   Street,  New  York  Clt- 

New   and   Explicit    Descriptive    Catalogue    Mailed 

Free   on  Request 


Cosy  Corners 

A  COMEDY  IN  FOUR  ACTS 

BY 

PAULINE  PHELPS  AND  MARION  SHORT 

All  Rights  Reserved 
COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY  SAMUEL  FRENCH 


CAUTION. — Professionals  and  amateurs  are  hereby  warned 
that  "COSY  CORNERS,"  being  fully  protected  under  the 
copyright  laws  of  the  United  States  and  Great  Britain,  is 
subject  to  a  royalty,  and  anyone  presenting  the  play  without 
the  consent  of  the  authors  or  their  authorized  agents  will  be 
liable  to  the  penalties  by  law  provided.  Application  for 
professional  and  amateur  acting  rights  must  be  made  to 
Samuel  French,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City,  N.  Y. 


New  York 
SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Publisher 
25  WEST  45TH  STREET 


London 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  Ltd. 

26  Southampton  Street 

Strand,  W.C.  2 


SAMU.          -3NCH 

+  ™t 

^.t—  ^"" 


"Cosy  Corners" 
All  Rights  Reserved 


Especial  notice  should  be  taken  that  the  possession  of  this 
book  without  a  valid  contract  for  production  first  having  been 
obtained  from  the  publisher,  confers  no  right  or  license  to 
professionals  or  amateurs  to  produce  the  play  publicly  or  in 
private  for  gain  or  charity. 

In  its  present  form  this  play  is  dedicated  to  the  reading 
public  only,  and  no  performance,  representation,  production, 
recitation,  public  reading  or  radiobroadcasting  may  be  given 
except  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French,  25  West 
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This  play  may  be  presented  by  amateurs  upon  payment  of  a 
royalty  of  Twentyfive  Dollars  for  each  performance,  payable 
to  Samuel  French,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York,  one  week 
before  the  date  when  the  play  is  given. 

Professional  royalty  quoted  on  application  to  Samuel  French, 
25  West  45th  Street,  New  York,  N.  Y. 

Whenever  the  play  is  produced  the  following  notice  must 
appear  on  all  programs,  printing  and  advertising  for  the  play: 
''Produced  by  special  arrangement  with  Samuel  French  of 
New  York." 

Attention  is  called  to  the  penalty  provided  by  law  for  any 
infringement  of  the  author's  rights,  as  follows: 

"SECTION  4966: — Any  person  publicly  performing  or  rep- 
resenting  any  dramatic  or  musical  composition  for  which 
copyright  has  been  obtained,  without  the  consent  of  the  pro' 
prietor  of  said  dramatic  or  musical  compositions,  or  his  heirs 
and  assigns,  shall  be  liable  for  damages  thereof,  such  damages, 
in  all  cases  to  be  assessed  at  such  sum,  not  less  than  one 
hundred  dollars  for  the  first  and  fifty  dollars  for  every  subse- 
quent performance,  as  to  the  court  shall  appear  to  be  just.  If 
the  unlawful  performance  and  representation  be  wilful  and  for 
profit,  such  person  or  persons  shall  be  guilty  of  a  misde- 
meaner,  and  upon  conviction  shall  be  imprisoned  for  a  period 
not  exceeding  one  year." — U.  S.  Revised  Statutes:  Title  60, 
Chap.  3. 


DESCRIPTION  OF  CHARACTERS 

MARIETTA — A  round-eyed  child  of  eight,  preternat- 
urally  inquisitive.  Her  general  manner  shows 
the  influence  of  her  late  association  tvith  the 
orphan  asylum,  rather  than  MRS.  BARTLETT'S 
care.  Her  hair  is  worn  in  two  tiny  pig-tails. 

MRS.  BARTLETT — A  fleshy  woman  of  fifty,  radiating 
good-will  and  good  wishes  toward  everyone. 
Her  clothes  look  as  if  they  had  been  designed 
by  a  country  dressmaker  not  quite  in  touch  with 
the  latest  styles. 

BOB  BARTLETT — A  rather  vealy  boy  of  twenty. 

LIBBIE  and  JANE — They  are  fourteen  and  fifteen 
years  of  age,  respectively,  and  are  of  the  roman- 
tic, gushing  type,  given  to  following  the  latest 
fashion  in  "flapper"  attire  and  hair  dressing. 

EDNA  PETTIBONE — A  nineteen-year-old  girl  of  vivid 
personality,  but  cowed  by  her  father's  severity 
into  drab  submissiveness  to  his  authority.  Her 
dresses,  though  of  inexpensive  material,  arc 
artistic  in  cut  and  color,  and  she  walks  with  the 
ease  and  grace  of  a  natural  dancer. 

DEACON  PETTIBONE — A  dominant,  crabbed  old  man 
of  sixty- five. 

3 


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4  COSY  CORNERS 

CLYDE  HOLLISTER — A  handsome,  scholarly-looking 
young  man.  His  voice  is  deep  and  expressive, 
his  gestures  eloquent  and  easy. 

Avis  MERRILL — A  happy-hearted,  beautiful,  young 
girl  of  twenty-two.  Her  poise  is  perfect,  and 
her  exquisite  Paris  attire  is  in  marked  contrast 
to  that  of  the  country  people  around  her. 

MORRIS  GRANBY — A  worldly  city  man,  fleshy  and 
jovial  in  appearance.  About  forty  years  of  age. 

SOPHIE  ANDERSON — An  everyday  village  girl  of 
seventeen,  with  rolling,  sentimental  eyes,  and  a 
nervous  giggle. 

AMANDA  STEBBINS — A  thin-faced,  sharp-nosed, 
slab-sided  spinster  of  forty-five,  with  a  particu- 
larly hard  and  racuous  voice. 


SCENES 

ACT  I — Lawn  in  front  of  Cosy  Corners  Congrega- 
tional Church. 

ACT  II — Dining  Room  of  Parsonage. 
ACT  III — Same  as  Act  II. 
ACT  IV — Same  as  Acts  II  and  HI. 


Cosy  Corners 

ACT  I 
TIME:    The  Present. 

SCENE:  The  lawn  in  front  of  the  Cosy  Corners 
Congregational  Church.  Benches  and  camp 
chairs  at  R.  and  L.  A  table  at  c.  with  ice-cream 
freeser  standing  beside  it.  Ice-cream  dishes  on 
table,  also  cake  plates,  paper  napkins,  etc.,  such 
as  are  usually  in  order  at  an  ice-cream  social. 
At  back  near  some  shrubbery  is  a  low  saw-horse 
with  a  plank  resting  against  it,  which  has  evi- 
dently been  used  by  childern  as  a  see-saw. 
There  is  a  large  basket  at  L.  of  table.  Dish-pan 
on  stump  near  table. 

DISCOVERED:  MRS.  BARTLETT,  standing  back  of 
table  gathering  up  some  dishes  that  BOB,  after 
drying,  is  handing  over  to  her.  She  is  putting 
some  of  these  back  into  the  basket,  as  the  social 
is  about  over.  BOB  wears  an  apron  over  his 
light  suit  of  clothes.  JANE  and  LIBBIE  are 
seated  on  bench  at  R.;  EDNA  at  L.  Near  EDNA 
stands  MARIETTA,  wriggling  about  uneasily  as 
she  watches  EDNA  dispose  of  the  last  of  a  dish 
of  ice-cream. 

MARIETTA.    Are  you  going  to  eat  it  all?    'Cause 
if  you  ain't,  I'll  finish  it  for  you. 

7 


8  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Come  right  over  here,  Marietta, 
an'  stop  starin'  at  Edna  like  that.  Of  course  she's 
goin'  to  finish  her  ice-cream,  an'  even  if  she  wasn't, 
you've  had  plenty  of  your  own. 

MARIETTA.  Is  it  pretty  near  all  gone  out  of  the 
freezer  ? 

BOB.    Nope.    Plenty  left  over. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I'm  plannin'  to  buy  what's  left 
myself.  Soon  as  you  finish  up  the  dishes,  Bob,  you 
may  as  well  take  off  your  apron  an'  carry  that 
freezer  over  onto  our  back  porch. 

BOB.    All  right,  Mom. 

MARIETTA.  Oh,  goody,  goody !  How  much  of  it 
can  I  have  for  supper,  Ma  Bartlett  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Land  sakes,  child,  you've  got 
three  dishes  inside  of  you  now ! 

MARIETTA.    But  ain't  orphans  always  hungry? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Every  time  Marietta  wants  her 
own  way,  she  thinks  she'll  get  it  by  remindin'  me 
she's  an  orphan. 

MARIETTA.  How  many  dishes  can  I  put  inside  me 
at  supper? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  You'd  think  she'd  been  starved 
ever  since  I  adopted  her  into  the  family. 

MARIETTA.  (Persisting  with  her  questioning) 
But  how  many  dishes ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  One,  maybe!  Stop  askin'  fool- 
ish questions! 

MARIETTA.  (Dancing  around)  Ice-cream  for 
supper!  Ice-cream  for  supper!  (To  LIBBIE  and 
JANE.^  Don't  you  wish  you  was  invited  over  to  our 
house  ? 

BOB.  (Amused)  That  kid's  the  living  question- 
mark,  if  you  ask  me! 

LIBBIE.  (Rises)  I  guess  it's  pretty  near  time  we 
were  going  home. 


COSY  CORNERS  9 

JANE.  (Rising  also)  Yes,  I  guess  it  is.  (They 
carry  their  dishes  to  the  table.) 

LIBBIE.    It  was  lovely  ice-cream,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

JANE.  Just  lovely.  I  ate  every  speck  that  was 
on  my  plate.  (As  LIBBIE  opens  purse.)  Now  let 
me  pay  for  it,  Libbie. 

LIBBIE.    No,  Jane,  let  me  pay  for  it. 

JANE.  But  you  paid  for  mine  at  the  last  ice-cream 
social. 

LIBBIE.  Why,  Jane!  How  can  you  say  such  a 
thing.  You  know  you  paid  for  mine.  (Elbows 
JANE.)  Let  me  pay,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

JANE.  (Elbows  LIBBIE)  No.  Here,  take  my 
money,  please.  She  paid  last  time.  (Both  offer 
money  to  MRS.  BARTLETT.) 

LIBBIE.    No,  she  paid. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  each  one  pays  her  own 
this  time,  an'  you  can  settle  it  between  you  after- 
wards. There's  your  change,  Jane,  an'  yours,  Lib- 
bie. (As  she  makes  change,  MARIETTA  surrepti- 
tiously eats  a  small  portion  of  ice-cream  she  finds 
on  LIBBIE'S  plate.) 

BOB.  Scat !  (This  is  said  for  MARIETTA'S  benefit, 
who  quickly  sets  down  the  plate  and  scampers 
around  behind  EDNA.) 

EDNA.  I'll  take  a  plate  of  cream.  (Goes  forward, 
takes  plate  and  pays  for  cream.)  There's  the  even 
change,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  All  right,  Edna.  I  thought  your 
father  might  drop  in  to  patronize  us,  seein'  as  it's 
a  half  holiday.  (Enter  DEACON  PETTIBONE,  R., 
carrying  a  buggy-whip.)  Oh,  Cousin  Jonathan,  I 
was  just  speakin'  of  you.  I'm  glad  you  came  before 
I'd  sent  back  the  freezer. 

DEACON.  Been  gettin'  my  horse  shod.  I  don't 
want  any  ice-cream.  Sp'iles  my  appetite,  an'  should 
think  'twould  sp'ile  anyone's,  havin'  a  half  burned 


io  COSY  CORNERS 

church  starin'  'em  in  the  face  like  that  one.  (Ges- 
tures L.,  with  buggy-whip.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  ( With  dignity)  Havin'  the  so- 
cial on  the  church  green  was  my  idea,  Cousin  Jona- 
than. I  thought  folks  would  patronize  us  double, 
seein'  as  we're  raisin'  funds  to  have  the  ruins  taken 
away.  But,  it  was  a  pretty  small  crowd.  (Sighs, 
then  smiles,  pluckily.)  Well,  better  luck  next  time. 
The  social  was  got  up  kind  of  sudden  anyway.  I 
guess  maybe  we  didn't  advertise  it  enough. 

DEACON.  You're  too  cheerful,  Cynthia.  Every- 
body's too  cheerful,  includin'  the  parson.  How 
folks  can  stand  around  an'  smile  when  the  church 
is  goin'  to  rack  an'  ruin,  beats  me. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  But  the  church  isn't  goin'  to 
rack  an'  ruin,  an'  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  say 
such  discouragin'  things  before  our  young  folks ! 

LIBBIE.  (As  she  and  Jane  come  down  from  table) 
Oh,  Jane,  come  on  over  to  my  house. 

JANE.    No,  you  come  over  to  mine. 

LIBBIE.    Mine's  the  nearest. 

JANE.  Well,  if  I  come  over  to  your  house  for  half 
an  hour,  then  will  you  come  over  to  mine  for  half 
an  hour? 

LIBBIE.    Umhm. 

DEACON.  Don't  make  yourself  sick  eatin'  too 
much,  Edna.  (Tastes  her  ice-cream.)  Humph !  Fit 
to  p'ison  you.  (Eats  the  rest  of  it.) 

JANE.    Oh,  Libbie,  you're  the  dearest  girl ! 

LIBBIE.  I  am  not.  You're  the  dearest  1  (They 
put  their  arms  about  each  other  and  skip  toward  L.) 

JANE.    (As  they  go)    No,  you  are. 

LIBBIE.    No,  you  are !    (They  exit  at  L.) 

MARIETTA.  Ma  Bartlett,  what  makes  Libbie  an* 
Jane  talk  so  much  an'  laugh  so  much? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  There  you  go  askin'  questions 
again ! 


COSY  CORNERS  n 

MARIETTA.    But  what  makes  'em? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Oh,  nothin',  except  most  girls 
at  that  age  are  pretty  much  all  giggle  an'  gab. 

MARIETTA.    Will  I  be? 

BOB.    You've  made  a  good  start,  kid. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Jonathan,  won't  you  buy  the  left 
over  ice-cream? 

DEACON.  Don't  want  it.  Just  tastin'  it  has  give 
me  indigestion.  Only  stopped  because  I  was  lookin' 
for  Edna. 

EDNA.    Did  you  want  me  for  anything  particular? 

DEACON.  Well,  as  long  as  you're  close  to  the 
center,  you'd  better  run  down  to  Axell's  grocery 
store  an'  let  'em  know  about  leavin'  out  that  starch 
from  my  order  this  mornin'. 

EDNA.  But  it's  so  pleasant  here.  Can't  I  let 
them  know  to-morrow  when  they  come  to  the  house  ? 

DEACON.  No.  Folks  that  make  mistakes  ought 
to  be  told  of  it  quick !  Tell  'em  if  they  try  to  cheat 
me  ag'in,  I'm  through  with  'em! 

EDNA.  Oh,  Father,  please — I  don't  like  to  say 
that! 

DEACON.    Are  you  goin'  to  obey  me,  or  ain't  you? 

EDNA.  (Despondently)  Of  course,  Father.  We 
need  some  soap,  too. 

DEACON.  Get  that  at  the  grocery  across  the 
street,  that's  set  up  in  competition.  Let  Axell's  see 
you  gettin'  it,  too. 

EDNA.  (Listlessly)  I  haven't  enough  money  for 
soap. 

DEACON.  (Hands  her  silver  piece)  There  'tis. 
Give  me  back  the  change  at  supper  time.  Don't 
forget. 

EDNA.    Oh,  I  won't.     (Exits,  L.) 

MARIETTA.  Supper  time,  supper  time!  We're 
goin'  to  have  ice-cream  at  supper  time!  (Dances 


12  COSY  CORNERS 

around.)  May  I  go  home,  Ma  Bartlett,  and  tell 
Susie  Jane  we're  goin'  to  have  ice-cream? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    Yes,  run  along. 

MARIETTA.  Ice  cream — pink  and  white  and  choca- 
lum!  Ice-cream,  ice-cream!  (Dances  around  and 
off  Rv  chanting  "Ice-cream.") 

DEACON.  Wouldn't  let  her  go  dancin'  around  like 
that,  Cousin  Cynthia.  Takin'  her  from  the  Orphan 
Asylum  ain't  goin'  to  be  no  credit  to  you,  if  you 
don't  bring  her  up  strict. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  The  idea  of  your  instructin'  me 
how  to  bring  up  a  child,  an'  me  a  church  member  all 
my  life ! 

DEACON.  You  don't  frown  on  dancin'  the  way 
you  used  to. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Not  innocent  dancin',  no.  The 
world  advances,  an'  I'm  tryin'  to  advance  with  it — 
Bob,  take  that  ice-cream  freezer  over  to  Mrs.  An- 
derson's an  tell  her  we're  much  obliged  for  the  loan 
of  it. 

BOB.    All  right,  Mom.    (Exits  with  freezer,  at  L..) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Didn't  want  to  get  into  an 
argument  with  you  before  Bob,  but  as  long  as  you've 
brought  up  the  subject  of  dancin'  yourself,  all  I 
want  to  say  is  that  all  the  young  folks  in  town  are 
pityin'  your  Edna. 

DEACON.    What  for? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Because  you  won't  let  her  go 
to  the  Saturday  Evenin'  Club,  made  up  of  the  town's 
nicest  young  folks,  on  account  of  bein'  afraid  she'll 
dance  with  some  of  'em. 

DEACON.  I  know  what  I'm  doin'.  No  one  can 
say  I  ain't  been  active  chasin'  the  devil  in  Cosy 
Corners. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Chasin'  folks  to  the  devil,  you 
mean.  Edna  ain't  goin'  to  stand  it  always.  Tryin' 
to  bring  her  up  like  she  was  a  sanctimonious  old 


COSY  CORNERS  13 

maid  of  sixty.  How's  she  goin'  to  get  any  pleasure 
out  of  life,  I'd  like  to  know? 

DEACON.  Don't  you  start  upholdin'  dancin'  to  me, 
Cynthia  Bartlett.  Shouldn't  be  surprised  if  you 
keep  on,  to  see  you  footin'  it  someday  yourself,  for- 
gettin'  your  standin'  in  the  church. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  I  do  dance  in  spirit  now, 
though  havin'  too  much  flesh  sort  of  holds  me  down 
in  body.  An*  as  for  Edna — why,  it's  natural  to  all 
young  creatures  to  want  to  dance  an'  frisk.  Look 
at  the  lambs  an*  kittens  an'  puppies!  They're  all 
a-dancin'  to  some  secret  music  of  their  own.  The 
flowers  an'  grass  are.  sort  of  dancin'  as  they  rise  up 
from  the  earth  in  Springtime.  I  wish  you'd  act 
more  like  a  human  bein',  Jonathan,  an'  let  Edna  go 
around  with  the  young  folks. 

DEACON.  Edna's  been  brought  up  to  respect 
parental  authority  an'  she's  goin'  to  keep  on  re- 
spectin'  it.  Don't  you  think  you  can  dictate  to  me. 
I'm  goin'  to  keep  a  short  rope  on  her  for  the  good 
of  her  soul.  Next  thing  I  cal'late  to  do  is  to  stop 
her  runnin'  round  with  that  fiddlin'  Miss  Merrill 
that's  spendin'  the  summer  here.  Fiddlin'  an'  danc- 
in' are  pretty  night  first  cousins  to  my  mind. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  There  you  go  again,  shuttin' 
down  on  poor  Edna.  When  you  know  she  just  about 
worships  Miss  Merrill.  Everybody's  fond  of  Miss 
Merrill  in  this  town,  but  you. 

DEACON.  Don't  see  any  reason  why  they  should 
be. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  I  suppose  it  began  when 
she  offered  to  play  her  violin  at  Mrs.  Deacon  Platt's 
funeral,  when  the  church  organ  broke  down. 

DEACON.  (Acidly)  That  don't  pay  for  her 
flouncin'  around  in  her  fine  clothes,  makin'  other 
girls  take  a  back  seat  while  she  walks  off  with  their 
beaux. 


i4  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Triumphantly)  There,  Cousin 
Jonathan,  I  knew  the  devil  would  out  if  you  only 
gave  him  time  enough.  I  understand  somethin'  now 
that's  been  botherin'  me  a  good  while. 

DEACON.    What  you  talkin'  about? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  You  didn't  have  a  word  to  say 
against  Miss  Merrill  until  she  began  goin'  around 
with  the  minister.  Now,  nothn'  she  says  or  does 
is  right.  You  was  hopin'  Clyde  would  fall  in  love 
with  Edna,  an'  Miss  Merrill  upset  your  plans. 

DEACON.    Plum  foolishness! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  An'  it's  your  plans  bein'  upset 
that's  turned  you  against  the  minister,  an'  made  you 
balk  at  everythin'  he  tries  to  do  to  build  up  the 
church. 

DEACON.  Don't  you  blame  me  because  the  Lord 
ain't  smilin'  on  Hollister's  pastorate.  Look  at  the 
church  catchin'  fire  an'  almost  burnin'  down.  I 
believe  in  signs  an'  warnin's. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Then,  if  you  believe  in  signs  an' 
warnin's,  why  didn't  you  believe  the  janitor  six 
months  ago  when  he  gave  us  warnin'  there'd  be  a  fire 
some  day  if  that  bad  spot  in  the  chimney  wasn't 
tended  to?  That's  the  kind  of  signs  an'  warnin's 
folks  ought  to  pay  attention  to. 

(Enter  CLYDE,  L.) 

CLYDE.  Well,  Deacon  Pettibone,  how  do  you  do 
this  afternoon? 

DEACON.  (Shortly)  Same  as  usual,  Parson  Hoi- 
lister. 

CLYDE.    That's  good. 

DEACON.  I  didn't  say  it  was  "good."  I've  got 
rheumatism  in  my  left  knee. 

CLYDE.     Indeed?     I'm  sorry. 

DEACON.     I  ain't  askin'  for  sympathy. 


COSY  CORNERS  15 

CLYDE.  (Kindly)  You're  welcome  to  it  just  the 
same.  (Exhibits  stack  of  hymnbooks  he  is  carry- 
ing.) Mrs.  Bartlett,  look  at  these  hymnbooks.  I 
just  found  them  in  the  ruins,  good  as  new,  except 
for  a  slight  scorch  on  the  sides  of  one  or  two  of 
them.  I'm  going  to  take  them  over  to  the  parsonage. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  well,  six  hymnals  will  help 
out  quite  a  little !  Don't  the  Bible  say  that  all  things 
work  together  for  good  to  those  that  love  the  Lord  ? 
(Saying  this  for  the  DEACON'S  benefit.)  That's  why 
we  all  ought  to  keep  right  on  smilin'  even  if  we  do 
have  to  hold  meetin's  in  the  back  room  of  the  parson- 
age until  the  church  is  repaired. 

CLYDE.  And  how  about  the  proceeds  from  the 
ice-cream  social? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    Gross  receipts,  $18.05. 

CLYDE.  (Rubbing  his  hands)  Well,  now,  that's 
quite  gratifying! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Hating  to  break  the  news) 
But  it  isn't  all  profit.  We  had  expenses  of  eleven 
dollars  leavin'  a  net  clear  profit  of  $7.05. 

DEACON.  The  Lord  ain't  prosperin'  the  cause 
here  for  some  reason  or  other. 

CLYDE.  (Depressed)  I  had  hoped  that  after  my 
strong  appeal  last  Sunday  the  people  of  Cosy  Cor- 
ners would  turn  out  in  better  numbers. 

DEACON.  There  ain't  so  very  many  to  turn  out. 
I  was  countin'  up  yesterday,  an'  you  ain't  had  but 
five  new  members  in  the  eight  months  since  you 
came. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  All  young  folks,  though — the 
kind  that's  to  carry  on  the  work  when  we  old  ones 
are  out  of  the  way. 

CLYDE.  (With  a  sigh)  I'll  admit  that  it  seems 
up-hill  work  sometimes. 

DEACON.  (Eagerly)  Maybe  you  think  you  made 
a  mistake  not  acceptin'  the  call  to  that  city  church? 


16  COSY  CORNERS 

CLYDE.  No,  I  have  no  regrets,  Deacon  Pettibone. 
A  city  church  right  at  the  start  would  have  been  too 
great  a  responsibility  for  a  young  theologue  like  me. 
I  want  to  build  up  the  church  here  first,  and  make 
my  calling  and  election  sure. 

DEACON.  Well,  that's  all  right  if  you're  sure  that 
while  you're  tryin'  to  build  up  the  church,  you  ain't 
bein'  pulled  down  spiritually  yourself. 

CLYDE.  Pulled  down  spiritually?  I  don't  think 
I  quite  get  what  you  mean,  Deacon. 

DEACON.  Well,  when  a  young  parson  standin'  up 
in  his  pulpit  readin'  a  Bible  text  catches  sight  of  a 
young  woman  comin'  into  the  church  an'  loses  his 
place  right  in  the  middle  of  a  verse,  watchin'  her 
swishin'  down  the  aisle — I  say  it  don't  look  spiritual 
minded  to  me. 

CLYDE.  (Somewhat  abashed  for  the  moment) 
You — refer  to  last  Sunday,  I  presume?  Well,  I 
did  lose  my  place  for  a  moment.  The  church  was 
in  shadow,  and  when  the  door  opened  bringing  the 
sunlight  along  with  Miss  Merrill — it  was  like  a  bit 
of  rosy  springtime  bursting  into  the  room.  I  assure 
you,  Deacon,  it  was  quite  worth  the  embarrassment 
I  experienced  in  losing  my  place.  Why,  the  thrill 
of  that  vision  of  beauty  inspired  me  then  and  there 
into  delivering  one  of  the  best  sermons  I  evef 
preached.  Several  persons  spoke  about  it  afterwards. 

DEACON.    About  your  forgettin'? 

CLYDE.    About  my  sermon. 

DEACON.  H'm !  What  does  anybody  know  about 
this  Merrill  young  woman  anyhow  ? 

CLYDE.  (Defensively)  Why,  that  she  has  a 
charming  personality,  and  is  spending  the  summer 
at  Cosy  Corners.  She  likes  Cosy  Corners. 

DEACON.  (Sarcastically)  What  in  particular 
does  she  like? 

CLYDE.    Why,  I've  heard  her  speak  of  the  church 


COSY  CORNERS  17 

— the  trees — the — the  moonlight — yes,  only  last 
evening  she  was  admiring  the  moonlight.  (Gives 
unconscious  sigh  of  happy  recollection.) 

DEACON.  Different  from  New  York  moonlight, 
I  s'pose.  Where  has  she  been,  an'  what  does  she 
do  for  a  livin'? 

CLYDE.    Why,  I  don't  know. 

DEACON.    Didn't  you  ever  ask  her? 

CLYDE.    Certainly  not. 

DEACON.    Why  not? 

CLYDE.  (Losing  his  temper  a  trifle)  Because  I 
didn't  care  to.  I  considered  those  matters  to  be 
strictly  her  own  business,  and  not  at  all  yours  or 
mine. 

DEACON.  (Angrily)  You  needn't  fly  off  at  your 
elders,  Parson  Hollister. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Now,  now,  do  calm  down,  both 
of  you,  an*  don't  say  things  you  may  be  sorry  for 
afterwards.  Poor  Miss  Merrill!  Why,  the  last 
thing  on  earth  she'd  want  to  do  would  be  to  make 
trouble  for  anybody.  Clyde,  if  not  knowin'  what 
Miss  Merrill  does  for  a  livin'  bothers  Cousin  Jona- 
than, I'd  just  as  soon  ask  her  myself  some  time.  She 
couldn't  think  anythin'  of  my  askin'  her,  I'm  sure — 
an'  me  a  woman  old  enough  to  be  her  mother. 
(Looks  off  R.J  Gracious  me,  if  there  she  ain't 
comin'  up  the  road  now! 

CLYDE.  (Forgetting  everything  else  at  sight  of 
Avis)  And  those  youngsters  Jim  and  Harry  quar- 
reling about  which  one  is  to  carry  her  parasol. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Laughs)  And  now  my  Bob's 
got  it  instead ! 

DEACON.    Young  fools! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  We  were  all  foolish  once,  an' 
may  be  again  before  we  get  through  with  it.  You 
never  can  tell. 

Avis.     (Entering  at  R.  tvith  BOB,  who  turns  and 


i8  COSY  CORNERS 

shakes  his  fist  at  unseen  rivals)  My  poor  little 
parasol !  It's  a  wonder  there's  enough  left  of  it  to 
hold  over  my  head.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mr.  Hoi- 
lister — Mr.  Pettibone?  (DEACON  snorts  ungracious 
greeting  in  reply.) 

CLYDE.  Fine,  Miss  Merrill.  And  how  are  you 
to-day  ? 

Avis.  Almost  too  happy  to  live.  Cosy  Corners 
has  a  wonderfully  bracing  climate. 

CLYDE.    I'm  glad  you  think  so. 

Avis.    So  am  I. 

CLYDE.  You're  looking  remarkably  well  this  af- 
ternoon. 

Avis.  Do  I  ?  I  mean,  am  I  ?  (They  look  at  each 
other,  laugh  a  bit  foolishly,  their  mutual  infatuation 
quite  apparent  to  everyone.) 

BOB.  (As  Avis  takes  back  her  parasol)  I'd  offer 
to  treat  you  to  ice-cream,  Miss  Merrill,  only  Mom 
made  me  take  home  the  freezer  a  while  ago.  Dern 
it! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    Bob  Bartlett!     Such  language! 

Avis.  Thank  you,  Bob,  but  I  know  all  about 
how  good  that  ice-cream  was.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I  was 
your  very  first  customer  this  afternoon,  wasn't  I? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Yes,  an'  I'm  afraid  I  was  stingy 
with  you  for  fear  the  ice-cream  wouldn't  hold  out. 
I  wish  I  hadn't  been  now. 

BOB.  It's  a  wonder  Jim  and  Harry  gave  you  a 
chance  to  eat  it,  walking  on  your  heels  the  way  they 
did ! 

DEACON.     Fools ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  The  Lord  made  most  men  fools, 
an'  I  s'pose  they  have  to  act  out  their  nature. 

LIBBIE.  (Heard  outside)  Now,  Jane — aw,  yes. 
Come  on  over  to  my  house — you  promised ! 


COSY  CORNERS  19 

(Enter  LIBBIE  dragging  JANE,  who  is  half  willing, 
half  reluctant.) 

JANE.    Oh,  how  do,  Bob? 

LIBBIE.    Hello,  Bob! 

BOB.  (Rapidly,  to  get  rid  of  girls,  the  while  keep- 
ing his  enraptured  eyes  on  Avis)  Hello,  Jane ! 
How  do,  Libbie?  But  I  saw  you  once  before  to-day, 
you  know. 

JANE.    Oh,  did  you? 

LIBBIE.  Well,  no  harm  in  saying  how  do  again, 
is  there? 

DEACON.  (Cuts  into  chatter  harshly)  You  was 
goin'  to  ask  Miss  Merrill  somethin',  wasn't  you, 
Cynthia  ? 

CLYDE.  (Aside  to  DEACON,  frowning)  There's 
no  hurry  about  that,  is  there? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Dear  me,  Jonathan,  do  let  folks 
set  down  an'  rest  themselves  a  minute  first.  (Ner- 
vously.) Let's  see — I  hope  I've  got  all  my  dishes 
packed  up  in  that  basket. 

Avis.    You  wanted  to  ask  me  something  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  I (CLYDE  in  his  un- 
easiness crumples  up  piece  of  cake — the  only  thing 
left  outside  the  basket.)  Clyde,  you've  gone  an' 
ruined  that  forty-cent  piece  of  cake — all  we  had  left ! 

CLYDE.  Sorry.  I — I'll  pay  for  it  gladly.  Here's 
a  dollar.  Forty  cents  for  the  cake — sixty  to  pay 
damages. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  All  right.  Here  Libbie,  Jane. 
Come  eat  this  up  to  save  the  pieces. 

LIBBIE.    Oh,  isn't  that  nice  ? 

JANE.    Isn't  it?    (They  proceed  to  eat  cake.) 

BOB.  (Seated  at  R.  by  side  of  Avis  and  oblivious 
to  all  the  world  outside)  Miss  Avis,  I  think  you're 
a  perfect  angel.  Even  that  spot  of  powder  on  your 
nose  looks  good  to  me.  (Avis  laughs,  produces 


20  COSY  CORNERS 

vanity  bag,  looks  in  mirror,  and  dusts  powder  off 
her  nose.)  I  had  the  oddest  dream  last  night! 

Avis.    Did  you,  Bob?    What  was  it? 

BOB.  I  dreamed  I  was  climbing  up  miles  and 
miles  of  winding  spiral  staircase — all  made  out  of 
your  curls! 

Avis.  How  funny! — What  are  you  staring  at? 
Isn't  my  hat  on  straight? 

BOB.    It's  your  eyes ! 

Avis.  (Seeking  to  escape  so  much  sentiment) 
Oh,  er — Mrs.  Bartlett,  may  I  ask  what  it  was  you 
were  going  to  ask  me? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Of  course,  though  'twasn't  any- 
thin'  special.  Get  up  a  minute  an'  let  me  sit  by  Miss 
Merrill,  Bob.  ( BOB  grudgingly  obeys.)  You  know 
in  a  place  like  this,  Miss  Merrill,  small  an'  sort  of 
off  the  beaten  track — an'  where  everybody  knows 
everybody  else,  an'  all  about  them — an'  where  we 

naturally  want  strangers  to  feel  at  home,  why 

(Hesitates  for  moment,  at  a  loss  how  to  proceed.) 

Avis.  (With  feeling)  Strangers  do  feel  at  home 
here.  At  least  I  do.  Mr.  Hollister  has  been  so  kind, 
introducing  me  around,  ever  since  that  day  I  wan- 
dered quite  by  accident  into  his  church,  unknown  to 
anyone.  I'll  never  forget  that  day,  Mr.  Hollister ! 

CLYDE.  (With  enthusiasm)  I'll  never  forget  it 
either,  Miss  Merrill! 

Avis.  And  now — why,  I  couldn't  feel  more  at 
home  anywhere ! 

CLYDE.  We  hope  it  will  always  seem  like  that  to 
you  here. 

DEACON.  Well,  well,  Cynthia,  folks  has  other 
things  to  do  besides  settin'  here.  If  you're  goin'  to 
do  what  you  said,  why  don't  you? 

CLYDE.  Deacon,  it  is  all  so  trivial — so  unnecessary. 

DEACON.  How  do  you  know  it  is  ?  Miss  Merrill 
owned  up  nobody  knew  her  when  she  come  here. 


COSY  CORNERS  21 

Avis.  Why,  what's  the  matter?  Has — has  any- 
thing happened  ?  Have  I  done  anything  to  displease 
anyone?  Please  tell  me  if  I  have. 

CLYDE.    No,  of  course  not,  Miss  Merrill. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  No,  indeed!  Deacon  Pettibone 
didn't  mean  anything  like  that.  We  was  just  won- 
derin' — that  is,  I  thought  it  would  be  interestin'  to 
know  where  you  was  born — an' — an'— 

DEACON.  (Supplying  the  missing  question)  — an' 
if  you're  self  supportin'. 

Avis.  Well,  I  was  born  in  New  York,  and,  yes, 
I  certainly  am  self  supporting. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  kind  of  thought  you  had  that 
independent  air  a  girl  gets  from  lookin'  out  for 
herself. 

DEACON.    Be  you  a  music  teacher? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Uneasily)  I  thought  /  was 
attendin'  to  this,  Jonathan. 

Avis.    I  have  taught — a  very  little. 

DEACON.     (Persistently)     Married  or  single? 

Avis.  (With  dignity)  If  I  were  married,  Mr. 
Pettibone,  I'd  be  wearing  a  wedding-ring. 

DEACON.  It  don't  always  follow.  (Takes  up 
Avis'  parasol  and  scrutinises  it.)  H'm !  Borrowed 
that  parasol  from  some  of  your  gal  friends  to  come 
on  this  trip  with,  I  s'pose? 

Avis.  What  do  you  mean?  I  never  borrow 
parasols.  I  earn  quite  enough  to  buy  my  own,  and 
this  one  I  selected  especially  to  go  with  my  cos- 
tume. 

DEACON.  Sort  of  odd,  when  your  name  is  Avis 
Merrill,  that  parasol  should  be  marked  with  the 
initials  C.  B.  (Avis  drops  handkerchief.  DEACON 
looks  at  it.)  Handkerchief's  marked  C.  B.  too ! 

Avis.  (Half  laughter,  half  scornful)  Why,  you've 
missed  your  profession.  You  would  have  made  a 
wonderful  detective! 


22  COSY  CORNERS 

CLYDE.  Deacon  Pettibone,  this  catechising  cannot 
be  especially  pleasant  to  Miss  Merrill,  and  I  object. 

DEACON.  Well,  I  object  to  folks  goin'  around 
callin'  themselves  sometimes  one  name  an'  sometimes 
another.  That's  why  I  asked  Miss  Merrill  if  she 
was  married,  an'  as  a  respectable  church  worker,  I 
have  a  right  to  ask  it. 

CLYDE.  Mr.  Pettibone,  this  is  infamous!  Miss 
Merrill,  you  need  not  trouble  even  to  answer  his 
accusation !  I  believe  in  you — we  all  believe  in  you. 

Avis.  But  you  see  what  he  suspects — that  I  some- 
times call  myself  by  a  name  not  my  own?  Well,  it's 
the  truth. 

DEACON.  I  guess  I  knew  what  I  was  talkin'  about, 
Parson. 

Avis.  (To  CLYDEJ  But,  if  in  spite  of  that  fact, 
I  asked  you  still  to  believe  in  me,  Mr.  Hollister — 
could  you  do  it? 

CLYDE.  (Takes  her  hands  and  looks  searchingly 
into  her  eyes)  I  could — I  do! 

Avis.     And  you,  Mrs.  Bartlett? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  don't  understand,  but  you've 
got  the  kind  of  face  I  just  can't  help  trustin*. 

BOB.    Me,  too! 

LIBBIE.  Oh,  Jane,  I  think  it's  all  just  too  lovely 
and  mysterious  for  words,  don't  you  ? 

JANE.    Yes,  and  especially  Miss  Merrill. 

Avis.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Pettibone,  so  as  not  to 
embarrass  my  friends,  let  me  say  that  when  I  came 
to  Cosy  Corners,  I  wanted  to  avoid  being  stared  at 
and  criticized,  and  just  rest  and  frolic  like  any  girl, 
so  I  gave  my  real  name  instead  of  my  professional 
one,  which  is  Claudia  Beresford. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  What!  You  are  Claudia — the 
violinist  ? 

Avis.    When  I'm  not  just  everyday  Avis  Merrill. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.     Claudia!     Why,  my  niece  in 


COSY  CORNERS  23 

Boston  wrote  about  your  playin'  for  them  operatic 
concerts  their  music  club's  been  givin'  this  past  win- 
ter, an'  makin'  the  biggest  hit  of  anybody  there. 
She's  crazy  about  you ! 

LIBBIE.  I  just  knew  all  along  you  were  some- 
thing wonderful,  Miss  Merrill. 

JANE.    So  did  I. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  got  any  more  questions 
to  ask,  Jonathan? 

DEACON.  No.  Wouldn't  have  asked  what  I  did 
'cept  my  conscience  told  me  I'd  ought  to.  I'm 
goin'  to  drive  on  down  to  my  hardware  store  to  git 
some  nails.  (Exits  L.j 

Avis.  Don't  think  any  more  about  it,  Mrs.  Bart- 
lett.  I  wonder  if  I  can  get  to  the  post-office  before 
closing  time. 

BOB.     (Eagerly)    Do  you  want  me  to — 

CLYDE.  (Elbows  BOB  out  of  the  way,  gently)  I'm 
sure  you  can.  May  I  walk  along  with  you  ? 

Avis.  Yes,  indeed.  I'll  be  glad  of  your  company, 
Mr.  Hollister.  (CLYDE  and  Avis-  exit  RV  chatting 
about  fondness  for  walking,  the  lovely  day,  etc.,  ad 
lib.) 

BOB.  (Ruefully,  looking  off)  Ministers  always 
get  the  best  of  everything. 

LIBBIE.  (To  JANE,)  Let's  tag  along  behind  them. 
I'd  just  love  to  do  my  hair  the  way  she  does,  now  I 
know  she's  somebody. 

JANE.    So  would  I. 

LIBBIE.    Claudia!    How  romantic! 

JANE.  How  absolutely  thrilling!  Libbie,  let's 
hurry! 

(LIBBIE  and  JANE  exit  R.J 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Claudia !  An'  to  think  Jonathan 
wouldn't  let  us  accept  her  offer  to  play  at  church 


24  COSY  CORNERS 

services  for  nothin'  this  summer It  makes  me 

feel  too  cheap  for  words ! 

BOB.  Claudia !  No  wonder  I  dreamed  about  that 
spiral  staircase,  and  her  away  up  at  the  top ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Come  down  to  earth,  here.  Take 
this  table  back  over  to  Sophie's  house  an'  tell  her 
ma  we're  much  obliged  for  the  loan  of  it.  I'll  take 
the  basket,  an'  when  you  come  back  through  here, 
you  can  bring  home  my  camp  chairs.  Well,  I  s'pose 
we've  got  everything  we  want.  (Picks  up  big  bas- 
ket.) 

BOB.  (His  eyes  traveling  yearningly  off  R.  after 
Avis)  Maybe  you  have  everything  you  want,  Mom, 
but  I  ain't.  (Picks  up  table.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  I'm  glad  the  social's  over. 
I  guess  I'm  sort  of  tired  standin'  on  my  feet  so  long. 

(Bos  exits  at  L. — MRS.  BARTLETT  at  R.    In  a  mo- 
ment, MORRIS  enters  at  L.,  followed  by  DEACON 

PETTIBONE.J 

* 

DEACON.  Hold  on,  stranger.  Didn't  you  call  out 
my  name? 

MORRIS.  (With  a  laugh)  Perhaps  I  did,  Friend 
Pettibone. 

DEACON.    Say,  how  did  you  know  who  I  was  ? 

MORRIS.  Recognized  that  old  buggy.  Thought 
you'd  have  fallen  for  a  Tin  Lizzie  by  this  time. 

DEACON.  Buggy  suits  me.  I  hate  them  tricky 
automobiles.  I  ain't  never  seen  you  before,  have  I  ? 

MORRIS.  (Laughs)  Well,  I  doubt  if  you'll  ever 
see  me  again.  The  sight  of  this  God-forsaken  mud- 
hole  of  a  town  makes  me  sick.  I  droooed  off  the 
last  train  in,  and  I  hope  to  take  the  next  one  out. 

DEACON.  Wait!  I  know  who  you  are  now! 
You're  that  scalawag  dancin'  teacher  that  boarded 


COSY  CORNERS  25 

down  to  Skunk's  Holler  about  ten  years  ago,  an'  run 
off  with  Hi  Stevens'  wife. 

MORRIS.    What  a  memory ! 

DEACON.    Did  you  marry  Hi  Stevens'  wife? 

MORRIS.    I  wasn't  born  yesterday ! 

DEACON.    What's  become  of  her? 

MORRIS.  The  last  I  heard,  she  was  headed  for  the 
demnition  bow  wows,  and  traveling  on  high. 

DEACON.  Morris  Granby,  you're  still  an  unregen- 
erate  scamp. 

MORRIS.  Friend  Pettibone,  you're  still  a  precious 
old  busy-body. 

DEACON.    About  Hi  Stevens'  wife,  now? 

MORRIS.  Kindly  cut  out  any  further  references 
to  the  dear,  dead  past,  Deacon.  In  other  words — 
forget  it,  as  I  have. 

DEACON.    Be  you  still  teachin'  dancin'? 

MORRIS.  Haven't  for  a  thousand  years.  There's 
my  card.  Study  it  at  your  leisure.  I'm  headed  for 
the  Cosy  Corners  Hotel. 

DEACON.  Hold  on,  hold  on!  What's  Claudia 
Beres ford's  name  doin'  on  your  card? 

MORRIS.  She's  one  of  the  half  dozen  high-class 
musical  celebrities  under  my  management.  I  dropped 
off  here  to  see  her. 

DEACON.  She  was  right  here  on  this  spot  to  an 
ice-cream  social  not  half  an  hour  ago. 

MORRIS.  Is  that  so  ?  Can't  understand  her  spend- 
ing her  vacation  in  such  a  place  as  this. 

DEACON.    Shinin'  up  to  her,  be  you? 

MORRIS.  Attractive  though  I  am,  she'd  never  see 
me  in  a  thousand  years,  old  dear — I'm  here  with  a 
contract  for  next  season  I'm  anxious  for  her  to  sign, 
that's  all. 

DEACON.  (Cautiously)  Miss  Beresford  calls  her- 
self Avis  Merrill  'round  this  town. 


26  COSY  CORNERS 

MORRIS.  Merrill  is  her  real  name.  She  has  a 
right  to  use  it. 

DEACON.  Well,  as  long  as  her  beau  don't  object, 
s'pose  'tain't  no  business  of  mine. 

MORRIS.  Ha,  ha!  So  Avis  has  annexed  a  boob 
admirer  in  Cosy  Corners,  has  she? 

DEACON.  She's  in  love  with  the  minister  of  the 
Congregational  Church,  an'  he  with  her,  if  that's 
what  you  mean. 

MORRIS.  (Contemptuously)  Bah,  that's  nothing 
serious. 

DEACON.  Mebbe  'tain't,  but  they  act  like  a  couple 
of  mooney  fools.  He  looks  at  her  as  if  she  was  the 
last  piece  of  strawberry  shortcake  on  the  plate  an' 
he  wanted  it.  She  looks  at  him  as  if  she  was  beg- 
gin'  him  to  grab  her  an'  eat  her  up.  She  ain't  at  the 
hotel — she's  out  walkin'  with  him. 

MORRIS.  A  minister,  eh?  H'm!  Interesting.  I 
thought  she  didn't  write  with  much  enthusiasm  about 
her  next  season's  tour — What  kind  of  a  dub  is  this 
minister  chap  anyway  ? 

DEACON.  Not  much  brains,  but  good  lookin'.  He 
ain't  been  popular,  though,  with  some  of  the  leadin' 
church  members,  the  way  he's  actin'  lately.  Why, 
he  had  a  chance  of  gittin'  one  of  the  nicest  girls  in 
town — well-off,  respectable,  an'  strict  brought  up, 
before  that  fiddlin'  Miss  Merrill  come  here. 

MORRIS.  Well,  the  town  girl  can  have  him  back 
again  ten  days  from  now. 

DEACON.    (Eagerly)    How  do  you  know  she  can  ? 

MORRIS.  Because  I'll  make  a  few  shifts  in  my 
plans  and  begin  Miss  Merrill's  tour  a  month  earlier 
than  I'd  intended.  That  means  she's  back  in  New 
York  inside  of  ten  days.  Once  Avis  begins  work, 
she'll  forget  there  ever  was  such  a  burg  as  Cosy 
Corners,  minister  or  no  minister! 


COSY  CORNERS  27 

DEACON.  Well,  Hollister  might  get  back  his 
standin'  if  he  behaved  himself  after  she'd  gone. 

MORRIS.  Do  you  think  I  might  run  into  them  if 
I  strolled  around  a  bit? 

DEACON.  Pretty  likely  to.  (Following  MORRIS 
as  he  starts  toward  R.j  I  tell  you  where  they  might 
be.  There's  a  new  soda-fountain  drug  store  two 
blocks  from  here,  an'  mebbe (Exits  after  MOR- 
RIS, *.,*  still  talking.) 

(Enter  SOPHIE  from  L.,  walking  rapidly,  followed 
by  BoB.J 

BOB.    Hold  on.    Wait  a  minute,  Sophie. 

SOPHIE.  (Pauses,  and  speaks  very  loftily)  Oh, 
is  that  you,  Mr.  Bartlett?  (Giggles  nervously.) 

BOB.  No,  it's  Bob.  Say,  you  must  be  sore  about 
something,  calling  me  Mr.  Bartlett. 

SOPHIE.  Oh,  is  that  so,  Mr.  Bartlett?  (Giggles 
again.) 

BOB.  (Ingratiatingly)  Sophie,  why  didn't  I  see 
you  just  now  when  I  carried  in  the  table  your  ma 
loaned  for  the  ice-cream  social  ? 

SOPHIE.  Because  I  saw  you  first,  Mr.  Bartlett, 
from  behind  the  parlor-curtain.  As  you  entered  the 
front  door,  I  went  out  the  back  one.  Good-bye. 
(Starts  off  R.) 

BOB.  Wait,  hold  on!  (She  stops,  giggling  ner- 
vously.) Gee,  but  you're  mad!  What  for?  Say, 
what  made  you  stay  home  from  the  social  ? 

SOPHIE.  (With  exaggerated  surprise)  Did  you 
really  notice  I  wasn't  there,  Mr.  Bartlett?  I  sup- 
posed you  were  too  busy  staring  at  Miss  Merrill  to 
know  whether  any  other  girl  was  around  or  not.  Not 
that  I  care.  (Giggles.)  No,  indeed!  (Giggles 
again.) 

BOB.    Well,  you  giggle  as  if  you  did. 

SOPHIE.    I  giggled  to  keep  from  sneezing. 


28  COSY  CORNERS 

BOB.  The  more  you're  all  fussed  up  about  some- 
thing, the  more  you  giggle. 

SOPHIE.    I  do  not.    (Giggles.) 

BOB.  You  do  so.  Gee,  you're  awful  cold  to  me, 
Sophie.  I  wish  the  ice-cream  freezer  was  here  so 
I  could  go  and  warm  myself. 

SOPHIE.  (Slightly  mollified)  Much  you  care 
whether  I'm  cold ! 

BOB.    I  care  a  lot,  Sophie. 

SOPHIE.    Except  when  Miss  Merrill  is  present. 

BOB.    (Mournfully  honest)    Yes,  except  then. 

SOPHIE.  Indeed!  And  you  own  it  right  to  my 
face!  Well,  it's  nothing  but  puppy-love,  if  you  want 
to  know  it,  and  she  knows  it  as  well  as  I  know  it, 
and  is  just  laughing  right  in  your  face  behind  your 
back,  and  everyone  knows  it,  and  don't  you  say 
another  word  to  me  again  as  long  as  you  live!  So 
there!  (Exits,  giggling,  L.  BOB  exits  R.,  whistling 
"Sweet  Hour  of  Prayer") 

(Enter  CLYDE  and  Avis  at  R.) 

CLYDE.  Well,  they've  cleared  about  everything 
away  but  the  see-saw.  Little  Marietta  and  some 
other  children  wanted  one  early  this  afternoon,  so  I 
allowed  them  to  take  that  old  saw-horse  and  a  plank 
from  the  church  basement. 

Avis.  They  must  have  had  loads  of  fun.  I 
missed  so  many  games  like  that  when  I  was  a  child. 

CLYDE.  But  even  as  a  child,  doubtless,  more  than 
anything  else,  you  wanted  to  be  a  musician  ? 

Avis.  (With  mock  seriousness)  No,  even  as  a 
child,  I  didn't.  Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth?  More 
than  anything  else  I  wanted  to  be  a  witch  and  go 
flying  on  a  broomstick.  I  tried  to  induce  grand- 
father's stout  cane  to  carry  me  over  the  chimney 
tops,  but  it  absolutely  refused  to  budge.  And  how 


COSY  CORNERS  29 

terribly  I  wanted  to  go  see-sawing  with  the  other 
children !  But  the  dear,  timid  old  aunt  who  brought 
me  up  was  always  afraid  I  might  injure  my  precious 
violin  arm  and  would  never  let  me  try.  Why,  even 
now  at  the  sight  of  that  plank — (Laughs.) — that  is 
— if  you  weren't  a  dignified  minister 

CLYDE.  And  you,  a  celebrated  violinist — (Looks 
around.)  There  doesn't  seem  to  be  anybody  in 
sight — (Defiantly) — no  harm  in  it  if  there  were! 
At  least — if  you  want  to  assist  with  the  other  end 
of  the  board — we  can  put  it  in  place. 

Avis.  Oh,  what  a  lark !  (They  put  board  across 
the  saw-horse,  she  at  one  end,  he  at  other.)  Though 
of  course,  it  would  really  never  do  for  either  of  us. 

CLYDE.  Would  you  like  to  see  how  it  balances? 
Here,  I'll  hold  the  board  until  you're  seated. 

Avis.  Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid  I'm  afraid,  for 
I'm  not!  (Each  sits  on  an  end  of  see-saw.) 

CLYDE.    Then  we're  off!    (They  see-saw  gently.) 

Avis.  See-sawing  at  last!  I  can  hardly  believe 
it!  I'm  just  a  little  freckle-nosed  girl  again,  and 
you're  a  bare-foot  boy  playing  hookey  from  school. 
Teacher  will  stand  us  in  the  corner  when  she  finds 
out,  but  we  don't  care. 

CLYDE.  Speaking  of  school  reminds  me  I  dreamed 
last  night  you  were  a  little  school-teacher,  and  I  was 
visiting  the  school. 

Avis.  What  a  failure  I'd  make  teaching  school! 
I'd  know  at  the  start  I  could  never  make  the  big 
boys  afraid  of  me. 

CLYDE.  No,  they'd  be  too  busy  falling  in  love  with 
you  for  that.  Anybody'd  fall  in  love  with  big  blue 
eyes  like  yours !  (He  brings  see-saw  to  a  stop  while 
Avis  is  at  highest  point.) 

Avis.  (Mischievously,  looking  down  at  him)  It's 
too  bad  to  spoil  it,  but  my  big  blue  eyes  are  green. 


3o  COSY  CORNERS 

(See-saw  sways  gently  up  and  down,  while  both 
laugh  happily.) 

CLYDE.  Of  course  they'd  all  want  to  walk  home 
with  you,  but  no  boy  would  get  a  chance  to  walk 
home  with  the  little  school-teacher,  because 

Avis.    Not  even  the  nicest  one? 

CLYDE.  He  least  of  all,  because  the  minister  would 
insist  on  walking  home  with  the  little  school  teacher 
himself. 

Avis.  (Stops  see-saw  while  HOLLISTER  is  at  high- 
est point)  Oh,  Mr.  Hollister,  would  you? 

CLYDE.  (Nods)  If  I  had  to  lick  every  boy  in 
sight ! 

Avis.  How  thrilling!  (Jumps  off  see-saw,  and 
CLYDE  falls  off.)  Oh,  forgive  me,  I  didn't  know  it 
would  act  like  that !  (Continues  repentant  exclama- 
tions.) 

CLYDE.  Both  legs  broken.  That  settles  it.  You'll 
have  to  stay  here  quite  awhile  to  console  me.  (Gets 
up,  laughing.) 

Avis.  But  it  is  time  I  was  going  home.  I  declare, 
the  sun  has  almost  set! 

CLYDE.  But  it  is  so  seldom  I  have  the  chance  of 
a  word  with  you  alone.  Sit  down  here  a  little  while, 
won't  you,  just  to  please  me? 

Avis.  I  was  dying  for  the  invitation.  (They  sit 
together  on  one  of  the  benches.  CLYDE  sighs  and 
gases  at  her,  sentimentally.)  Why  do  you  sigh  like 
that  and  look  at  me  so  solemnly? 

CLYDE.  Perhaps  because  finding  out  you're  a 
great  artist  has  put  such  a  gulf  between  us ! 

Avis.  But  if  a  gulf  weren't  too  deep,  a  minister 
might  put  on  his  rubber  boots  and  wade  across, 
mightn't  he? 

CLYDE.  If  he  could  afford  the  boots.  (Both 
laugh.  They  are  half  playful,  half  serious.)  That 
letter  waiting  for  you  at  the  post-office  was  from 


COSY  CORNERS  31 

your  business  manager,  you  told  me.  That  means 
New  York  is  calling  you  once  more. 

Avis.  I've  been  neglecting  business  letters,  ne- 
glecting everything — even  my  precious  violin  ! 

CLYDE.  Your  violin!  I'm  going  to  confess  some- 
thing. I've  been  frightfully  jealous  of  that  instru- 
ment. 

Avis.  Jealous  of  a  poor  old  wooden  violin  that 
can't  speak  a  word  in  its  own  defence  ? 

CLYDE.  It  can  sing  alluring  songs  that  make  you 
seem  to  forget  the  world.  You  snuggle  it  to  your 
throat,  rest  your  cheek  against  it,  caress  it  with  your 
fingers.  I've  a  suspicion  you  whisper  love  messages 
to  it  sometimes.  Who  wouldn't  be  jealous  of  a 
violin  ? 

Avis.  I  am  fond  of  my  violin.  My  first  maestro, 
old  Giuseppe  Baldani,  willed  it  to  me  when  he^died, 
and  I  hope  to  keep  it  with  me  as  long  as  I  live. 

CLYDE.  You'll  never  be  able  to  guess  what  know- 
ing you  this  summer  has  meant  to  me,  Miss  Merrill, 
and  how  I  shall  miss  you  when  you're  gone. 

Avis.  I'll  miss  you,  too — and  everyone.  But  I 
hope  to  come  back  here  next  year — perhaps.  It's 
been  the  very  happiest  summer  of  my  life ! 

CLYDE.  Has  it — really?  Oh,  but  you  couldn't — 
no — it's  madness  even  to — (Checks  himself  abrupt- 
ly.)— of  course,  you  couldn't. 

Avis.     (Softly)    Couldn't  what,  Mr.  Hollister? 

CLYDE.  Couldn't  ever  be  tempted  to  give  up  a 
public  career — the  worship  of  crowds,  for — any- 
thing else? 

Avis.  That  depends.  What  "anything  else"  do 
you  mean? 

CLYDE.  I  mean  the  passionate  love,  the  lifetime 
loyalty  of  a  chap  who (Pauses.)  It's  unfor- 
tunate I  happened  to  look  toward  the  charred  tim- 
bers of  that  poor  old  church  just  then.  It  brought 


32  COSY  CORNERS 

me  to  my  senses.  An  obscure  country  minister — I 
— we'll  change  the  subject,  and — Please  forgive  me, 
Miss  Merrill. 

Avis.     (Softly)     There's  nothing  to  forgive. 

CLYDE.    I — I  mustn't  keep  you  here  any  longer. 

Avis.  Well,  I've  no  conscience  at  all  about  keep- 
ing you  here.  I  haven't  been  near  the  church  since 
the  fire.  I  wonder  if  you'd  mind  taking  me  over  it — 
just  once — before  I  leave  Cosy  Corners? 

CLYDE.    You  mean — now  ? 

Avis.    Yes,  now. 

CLYDE.  Gladly — of  course.  But  it's  rather  deso- 
late looking — those  charred  timbers (They  exit 

at  -L.) 

(Enter  DEACON  PETTIBONE  and  MORRIS,  R.j 

DEACON.  I  ain't  sure — where's  my  specs 

(Puts  them  on.)  There's  your  fiddlin'  girl  an'  the 
Parson  now — makin'  for  the  church.  Come  on! 

MORRIS.  H'm !  I  don't  want  to  talk  before  him. 
Can't  you  take  him  off  my  hands  somehow? 

DEACON.  I'd  jest  as  soon  tackle  him  to  help  look 
for  some  more  hymnbooks  in  the  ruins ;  an*  tell  her 
there's  someone  waitin'  here  to  see  her. 

MORRIS.  Pettibone,  you're  a  natural  born  strate- 
gist. It's  a  wonder  the  world  has  let  you  linger  in 
Cosy  Corners  so  long. 

(Enter  EDNA,  L.J 

DEACON.  (Puts  away  glasses)  Well,  well,  Edna, 
what's  kept  you  down  to  the  Center  f oolin'  around  ? 
Why,  it's  most  supper  time  now! 

EDNA.  It's  a  holiday  and  the  grocery  only  opened 
up  for  half  an  hour.  I  had  to  wait. 

MORRIS.    Why,  this  isn't  little  Edna  Pettibone  I 


COSY  CORNERS  33 

used  to  see  swinging  on  your  front  gate  when  I  lived 
here? 

EDNA.  (Looks  inquiringly  at  MORRIS,)  Why, 
who 

DEACON.  Yes,  'tis,  but  she  ain't  got  time  to  stop 
an'  meet  strangers.  Hurry  along,  Edna.  I  want 
supper  on  the  table  when  I  get  home,  an'  I'm  comin' 
as  soon  as  I've  seen  the  Parson  about  somethin'. 

EDNA.  I'll  get  it  as  fast  as  I  can,  Father.  But 
things  take  time  to  cook.  (Exits  R.) 

MORRIS.  Nice  looking  girl,  Deacon,  even  if  you 
didn't  introduce  me.  I  wouldn't  have  done  anything 
but  bite  her  head  off,  you  know.  (Looks  off  R.) 
They  seem  to  be  strolling  beyond  the  church. 
They'll  be  out  of  sight  in  a  minute. 

DEACON.    I'll  ketch  up  with  'em.    (Exits  L.J 

EDNA.    (Enters  from  R.)    Mr.  Granby! 

MORRIS.  Well,  Edna,  what  is  it?  (Rises  from 
bench  and  goes  toward  her.) 

EDNA.  You  won't  mention  to  Father  that  I  was 
ever  in  that  children's  dancing-class  of  yours,  will 
you  ?  He  never  knew  about  it.  He  thinks  my  danc- 
ing was  just  a  natural  gift  from  the  devil ! 

MORRIS.  Of  course  I  won't  mention  it.  I'll  never 
forget  how  you  broke  your  little  savings  bank  open 
to  pay  for  your  lessons.  Do  you  dance  as  well  as 
ever? 

EDNA.  I  would  if  I  had  the  chance.  I  love  it 
same  as  I  always  did.  Father  won't  let  me  even  sit 
out  a  dance  any  more.  He  seems  to  grow  more 
strict  every  day. 

MORRIS.    Best  little  dancer  in  the  class,  you  were. 

EDNA.  All  I  care  for  in  this  world  is  dancing  and 
pretty  clothes,  and  I  can't  have  either  one ;  but  don't 
tell  father  I  said  so.  Good-bye. 

Mor.Kis.  Wait  a  second.  Here,  take  my  card. 
And  if  you  ever  want  to  make  a  living  outside  this 


34  COSY  CORNERS 

town — you  could  be  a  professional  dancer  without 
half  trying. 

EDNA.  Oh,  do  you  think  so?  But  father  would 
never  let  me  leave  Cosy  Corners. 

MORRIS.  Anyhow,  there's  my  card.  I  might  hear 
of  something  to  your  advantage,  some  day,  you 
know. 

EDNA.  Thank  you.  If  I  could  only  make  my  liv- 
ing, I — Mercy!  I  hope  father  hasn't  looked  back 
and  seen  me.  I — I'll  keep  this  card — and — and — 
don't  forget  what  you  promised — about  being  on  the 
look-out — will  you? 

MORRIS.    No.    You  can  count  on  that,  little  girl. 

EDNA.    Thank  you.     (Exits  R.J 

fMoRRis  takes  out  cigar  and  lights  it,  after  looking 
off  L.    Enter  Avis  L.) 

Avis.  Morris  Granby!  What  a  surprise!  Mr. 

Pettibone  said  that  someone Why,  what  on 

earth ? 

MORRIS.  Young  lady,  my  last  three  letters  re- 
garding next  season's  contracts  failed  to  bring  a  re- 
ply. I  thought  I'd  show  up  and  see  what  the  trouble 
was.  I've  been  all  over  town  trying  to  find  you. 
You're  some  little  will-o-the-wisp ! 

Avis.  I'm  sorry  I've  been  so  slow  about  answer- 
ing your  letters,  Morris.  It  was  quite  beastly  of  me, 
but  really,  I  never  meant  to  put  you  to  any  extra 
trouble  on  my  account.  I  was  having  such  a  lovely 
time  it  seemed  I  just  couldn't  fasten  my  mind  on 
next  season's  work  and  contracts  and  all  that  sort 
of  thing.  But  I  intended  writing  you  to-night — in- 
deed I  did — and  telling  you — well,  telling  you  more 
about  why  my  stay  here  has  been  so  pleasant.  (Looks 
off  L..)  I  wonder  what  they're  talking  about.  I 


COSY  CORNERS  35 

thought  Mr.  Hollister  intended  following  right  after 
me. 

MORRIS.    Mr.  Hollister? 

Avis.  Yes.  He's  a  wonderful  young  minister, 
Morris.  I  wish  you  could  hear  him  preach  some- 
time !  And  he's  so  unselfish  and  sincere,  and  doesn't 
seem  to  realize  his  great  talent  at  all.  Why,  I  don't 
think  I've  ever  heard  better  sermons. 

MORRIS.  Well,  after  I'm  dead,  I  may  have  some 
spare  time  for  such  things,  but  not  now.  Er — shall 
we  walk  up  to  your  hotel? 

Avis.  No,  I  think  we  might  as  well  talk  here.  I'm 
sure  Mr.  Hollister  will  be  along  directly. 

MORRIS.  Have  you  looked  at  that  provisional  con- 
tract I  mailed  you? 

Avis.  Yes,  I  glanced  it  over.  It's  a  better  offer 
than  I  had  supposed  you  could  afford  to  make  me 
for  a  couple  of  years  yet. 

MORRIS.  I'm  willing  to  be  generous.  You've 
made  good.  You've  reached  a  point  in  the  road  now 
you've  been  struggling  for  ever  since  you  came 
under  my  management  as  a  child.  So  I'll  just  sign 
you  up  while  I'm  here,  and  then 

(DEACON  enters,  LV  followed  by  CLYDE.,) 

Avis.  Here's  Mr.  Hollister  now.  This  is  my 
manager,  Mr.  Granby,  Mr.  Hollister. 

CLYDE.     (Offers  hand)    How  do  you  do. 

MORRIS.  (Shakes  hands  with  CLYDE,)  How  do. 
Miss  Merrill  was  just  speaking  of  you. 

DEACON.  (Peevishly)  I  tried  to  get  the  Parson 
to  attend  to  huntin'  for  hymnbooks,  but  he  showed 
more  interest  in  what  was  goin'  on  here  than  in 
savin'  money  for  the  church. 

Avis.  I'm  glad  Mr.  Hollister  was  interested  in 
what  was  going  on  here.  I  wanted  him  to  be. 


36  COSY  CORNERS 

MORRIS.  Then  it  may  not  be  out  of  place  for  me 
to  inform  him  that  the  contract  I'm  offering  you 
next  season  is  the  chance  of  a  lifetime — easy  going 
and  big  returns — a  trip  abroad 

Avis.  But,  Morris,  there  are  other  things  to  be 
considered  than  easy  goings  and  big  returns,  and 
trips  abroad  and  all  that — when  other  things  come 
along  for  a  girl. 

MORRIS.  You  mean — you  don't  like  the  contract 
I'm  offering? 

Avis.  N — no,  but  I'm  considering  another  con- 
tract— of  a  different  sort. 

MORRIS.  Blue  pencil  anything  you  don't  like  in 
this  one,  Avis — and  write  in  what  you  want.  I'm 
willing  to  trust  you — and  then  perhaps  one  or  both 
of  these  gentlemen  will  be  willing  to  witness  your 
signature.  Here — I've  a  fountain  pen  handy 

DEACON.    I'm  willin'  to  witness.    Be  you,  Parson  ? 

Avis.  (Rejects  offer  of  pen)  Morris,  I'm  awfully 
afraid  I'm  going  to  disappoint  you  about  that  con- 
tract— any  contract. 

MORRIS.  Why,  to  quit  the  game  now  would  be  a 
horrible  mistake — one  you'd  regret  all  your  life. 

CLYDE.  (In  low  voice  to  Avis,  hardly  conscious 
of  others)  I  was  carried  away  by  my  feelings  just 
now,  but  we  who  labor  in  the  Lord's  vineyard  must 
often  follow  difficult  roads.  What  I  have  to  offer 
may  mean  poverty,  obscurity,  struggle,  not  for  the 
few  years  while  you  are  young  and  there's  hope 
ahead,  but  even  in  old  age  and  to  the  end. 

Avis.  But  the  poverty,  obscurity,  struggle — 
they'd  all  be  glorified,  Gyde,  because  of  the  blessed- 
ness of  sharing  them  with  you ! 

CLYDE.  Think — think  again,  dearest.  I'll  not 
blame  you  whatever  decision  you  make.  Remember, 
once  having  chosen,  there'd  be  no  turning  back. 

Avis.    There'll  be  no  turning  back.     When  love 


COSY  CORNERS  37 

comes  knocking  at  a  woman's  heart,  there's  only  one 
answer  she  can  give — Clyde!  (Goes  into  CLYDE'S 
arms.) 

(MORRIS  tears  up  contract  and  throws  the  pieces  in 
the  air.    Starts  off  R.,  followed  by  DEACON.J 

CURTAIN 


ACT  II 
TIME  :    February  of  the  following  year. 

SCENE:  Dining-room  of  parsonage,  furnished  in 
country  style.  Door  in  flat  leads  into  hall, 
where  hat  rack  is  visible.  Door  up  R.  leads  into 
kitchen.  Door  up  L.  leads  into  Pastor's  study. 
Part  of  study  interior  visible.  Door  down  L. 
Combination  book-case  and  desk  against  wall  L. 
Table  c.  Down  R.  fireplace  with  arm  chair  in 
front  of  it.  Rockers  and  other  chairs  ad  lib. 
To  R.  of  c.  door  a  worn  trunk  against  wall,  with 
"Claudia"  printed  on  side  in  large  letters.  Pic- 
tures and  other  furnishings  ad  lib. 

DISCOVERED:  Avis  sitting  by  table,  busily  embroid- 
ering slipper.  Enter  AMANDA  from  kitchen, 
carrying  a  flat  cake  in  tin. 

AMANDA.  (Displaying  flat  cake)  Here's  the  cake 
you  was  bakin'  for  your  husban's  birthday. 

Avis.  (Looks  disappointedly  at  cake)  Did  it 
fall? 

AMANDA.    No'm.    It  never  riz. 

Avis.  Oh,  dear.  I  did  think  that  cake  was  going 
to  behave.  What's  the  matter  with  it,  Amanda? 

AMANDA.  I  thought  of  tellin'  you  you  was  leavin' 
out  the  bakin'  powder,  but  seein'  as  I  only  work  out 

for  an  accommodation (Bell  rings.)  Land 

38 


COSY  CORNERS  39 

sakes,  I  ain't  done  nothin*  all  mornin'  but  run  to 
answer  the  bell.  People  bringin'  in  bundles  for  that 
church  rummage  sale.  (Opens  door  disclosing  MRS. 
BARTLETT.  j  How  do,  Mrs.  Deacon  Bartlett? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    How  do,  Amandy. 

Avis.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I'm  so  glad  it's  you !  Now 
I  know  I've  really  got  back  from  New  York  and 
am  at  home  again. 

AMANDA.  Land  sakes,  if  bein*  here  three  hours. 
upsettin'  a  milk  bottle,  an*  spoilin'  a  cake  ain't 
enough  to  make  you  realize  you've  got  home,  I  don't 
see  how  Mis'  Bartlett's  comin'  here  is  goin'  to  do  it ! 

Avis.  Figuratively  speaking,  I  meant,  Amanda. 
Please  don't  be  cross. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Avis,  seems  as  if  you'd  been 
away  five  weeks  instead  of  five  days — an'  with 
Clyde  gone  at  the  same  time  to  that  church-work- 
ers' conference (Turns  to  AMANDA.^  'Mandy, 

I  don't  want  to  keep  you  out  of  the  kitchen. 

AMANDA.  I  ain't  busy  more'n  usual.  What's 
the  news?  (Sits  in  rocking-chair.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Nothing  you  Methodists  would 
be  interested  in,  'Mandy.  (Takes  another  rocking- 
chair.) 

AMANDA.  I'm  willin'  to  put  myself  out  to  hear 
about  Congregationalist  troubles  any  day  in  the 
week. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Sorry  to  disappoint  you,  but  I 
haven't  any  troubles  to  tell. 

AMANDA.  Then  mebbe  you  don't  know  that  while 
Mr.  and  Mis'  Hollister  was  away  from  home,  more 
of  that  livin'-room  ceilin'  cracked  ready  to  fall  down 
— right  over  them  benches  you're  usin'  for  Sunday 
School.  If  you  don't  get  back  into  your  church 
pretty  soon,  your  scholars'll  be  comin'  over  to  join 
us  Methodists  where  they'll  feel  safe  from  harm. 


40  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Changes  chairs  again,  ignoring 
AMANDA,  speaks  to  Avis)  Pleasant  day,  ain't  it? 

Avis.  Yes —  (Looks  meaningly  toward 

AMANDA.^  Just  a  little  cloudy — but  might  be  worse. 
("AMANDA  and  MRS.  BARTLETT  rock.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Shows  bundle)  I  brought  over 
three  bungalow  aprons  for  the  rummage-sale.  They 
was  give  to  me  last  Christmas,  an'  every  last  one  of 
'em  is  too  small. 

Avis.  They're  sure  to  be  popular  at  the  sale.  I 
do  hope  we'll  raise  enough  money  to  replace  the 
Sunday  School  reading  desk  that  was  burned. 

AMANDA.  I  should  think  you'd  be  wantin'  a  Sun- 
day School  room  to  put  it  in  before.you  spent  money 
buyin'  a  desk. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Amandy,  I  just  feel  I'm  hinder- 
in'  you  from  your  work. 

AMANDA.  I  ain't  said  you  was.  (They  rock 
again.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  As  I  was  sayin',  Mrs.  Hollister, 
it's  a  pleasant  day  out.  Still  it  does  seem  to  me  con- 
siderable like  thunder  an'  lightnin'.  (Rocks  violently 
and  glares  at  AMANDA.J  But  maybe  it  only  seems 
like  that  because  I  smell  somethin'  burnin'. 

AMANDA.  (Starts  up  in  horror)  My  beans! 
Well,  'tain't  my  fault  with  folks  comin'  in  all  hours 
of  the  day  interruptin'  me.  An'  bein'  as  I  only 

work  out  for  an  accommodation (Picks  up 

cake  and  shows  it  to  MRS.  BARTLETT  en  route  for 
door.)  Cake.  Flat.  Baked  it  herself.  None  of  my 
doin's.  (Exits  into  kitchen.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  declare,  sometimes  I  don't 
know  which  one  gets  on  my  nerves  the  most — 
Amandy  or  Jonathan  Pettibone.  I  should  think 
you'd  have  enjoyed  bein'  in  New  York  for  a  spell 
an'  gettin'  away  from  them  both. 

Avis.    I  was  so  busy  taking  my  stage  trunks  out 


COSY  CORNERS  41 

of  storage,  I  didn't  have  time  to  think  much  of  any- 
thing else.  (Points  to  trunk.)  I've  brought  every- 
thing I  ever  owned  back  with  me.  I  really  got  home- 
sick for  Cosy  Corners,  and  looked  forward  to  train 
time. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  How  I  did  miss  you  and  Clyde 
both  at  last  Wednesday  night's  meetin' !  It  wasn't  a 
regular  prayer  service.  Mr.  Umpstead  that's  sub- 
stitutin'  over  in  Firetown  delivered  a  sermon  instead, 
on  Deacon  Pettibone's  invitation — an'  of  all  the  poor 
preachin' 

LIBBIE.  (Putting  her  head  in  at  door  R.)  May 
Jane  and  I  come  in?  Amanda  was  out  in  the  yard, 
and  directed  us  the  kitchen  way. 

Avis.  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Libbie.  And  Jane,  too. 
(Girls  enter.) 

JANE.  We  were  here  yesterday  to  ask  if  you'd 
got  home.  We're  awfully  glad  you're  back  again, 
aren't  we,  Libbie? 

LIBBIE.  I  should  say  we  were.  (Displays  an  old 
bird  cage  she  has  brought  with  her.)  Here's  a  bird- 
cage we  haven't  any  more  use  for  at  home.  I 
brought  it  for  the  rummage  sale.  It's  all  right  ex- 
cept the  seed-cup  and  the  door. 

Avis.  Thank  you.  (Takes  cage.)  I  hope  some- 
body has  a  bird  that'll  just  fit  it.  I  can  regild  it 
myself. 

JANE.  (Produces  diary)  I'm  contributing  this 
book.  It's  a  diary. 

Avis.    That's  nice.     (Takes  book.) 

JANE.  I  used  it  up  to  January  eleventh  and  then 
I  couldn't  think  of  any  more  to  write.  It's  all  blank 
pages  after  that. 

LIBBIE.  Dear  me,  it  does  seem  good  to  sit  down 
and  rest  my  feet.  I'm  terribly  tired ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Tired?  Why  a  girl  your  age 
oughtn't  to  know  she  has  any  feet.  Wait  till  you're 


42  COSY  CORNERS 

married  an'  have  to  run  your  legs  off  doin'  house- 
work. 

LIBBIE.  But  Jane  and  I  aren't  ever  going  to  get 
married,  are  we,  Jane? 

JANE.  Never,  because  our  friendship  for  each 
other  is  simply  ideal.  We  just  hate  boys,  both  of  us, 
and  always  will. 

LIBBIE.  We'd  rather  go  with  each  other  to  pic- 
nics and  things  than  with  a  tiresome  boy  any  time. 

JANE.  Boys  are  nothing  but  rude  and  insignifi- 
cant animals. 

LIBBIE.    And  we  just  scorn  their  very  existence. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  My,  my !  Avis,  just  give  them 
two  goslin's  a  few  more  months,  an*  all  the  boys 
in  town  will  have  to  run  to  get  away  from  'em ! 

JANE.  Why,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  how  can  you  say  such 
a  thing?  I  think  we'd  better  be  going,  Libbie. 
fjANE  and  LIBBIE  rise.) 

Avis.  Don't  hurry  away.  The  rummage  sale  is 
set  for  next  Saturday.  We  can  talk  about  that. 

LIBBIE.  Well,  you  see,  Mrs.  Hollister,  we  can't 
stay  anyhow  because  we  haven't  finished  our  hike. 

JANE.  We  have  a  mile  more  to  do,  but  we  just 
couldn't  pass  the  parsonage  without  stopping  to  see 
you. 

LIBBIE.  Because  next  to  each  other,  we  love  you, 
Mrs.  Hollister.  Don't  we,  Jane  ? 

JANE.    Umhm. 

LIBBIE.  And  we  hope  Mr.  Hollister  will  preach  in 
Cosy  Corners  forever  and  forever. 

Avis.  My  husband  will  feel  complimented  when 
I  tell  him  that. 

JANE.  What  do  you  think  we  took  along  with  us 
on  our  hike  ? 

Avis.     Sandwiches  ? 

LIBBIE.  No,  indeed — something  educational — an 
almanac. 


COSY  CORNERS  43 

JANE.    It's  just  full  of  important  facts. 

LIBBIE.  Every  time  we  sat  down  to  rest  we  made 
it  a  rule  to  commit  one  fact  to  memory,  didn't  we, 
Jane? 

JANE.    Conscientiously. 

Avis.  Do  tell  us  some  of  the  facts — we'd  like  to 
share  them  with  you. 

JANE.    Go  on — tell  one,  Libbie. 

LIBBIE.     No,  you. 

JANE.    I  can't  seem  to  think  of  any  right  now ! 

LIBBIE.    Being  asked  so  sudden  and  everything — 

JANE.  Oh,  I  remember  one — an  important  one, 
too! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (In  undertone)  I  was  afraid 
this  would  happen. 

JANE.  It  comes  under  the  chapter  headed  "Help 
in  case  of  accidents."  It  says  dash  cold  water  over 
a  person  struck  with  lightning — so  if  Libbie  ever  is, 
I'll  know  what  to  do.  Well,  good-bye. 

LIBBIE.    Good-bye. 

Avis.    Don't  forget  the  rummage  sale. 

JANE  and  LIBBIE.    We  won't !    (They  exit,  c.J 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Coin'  back  to  the  subject  we  was 
talkin'  about,  I  didn't  want  to  tell  you  first  thing  I 
got  in,  Avis,  but  Deacon  Pettibone  day  before  yes- 
terday backed  out  of  loanin'  the  buildin'  committee 
money  to  go  on  with  buildin'  operations,  an'  the 
builders  have  quit  work. 

Avis.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  to  hear  that !  It  will  be 
an  awful  blow  to  Clyde.  Couldn't  the  builders  be 
induced  to  go  ahead  and  give  us  time  on  the  pay- 
ments ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  The  trouble  is  they  need  con- 
siderable cash  for  supplies  right  at  the  start.  Jona- 
than promised  the  loan — he'd  ought  to  when  he's  the 
richest  man  in  Cosy  Corners — but  he  says  now  that 
if  your  husban'  hasn't  influence  enough  to  raise  the 


44  COSY  CORNERS 

money  from  the  congregation,  it's  a  sign  the  Lord 
don't  want  him  here;  an'  Clyde  gettin'  more  an' 
more  popular  with  the  young  folks  every  day!  It 
just  makes  me  so  wrathy  with  Cousin  Jonathan  I 
feel  like  pullin'  his  whiskers  an'  hearin'  him  yell  for 
mercy ! 

Avis.  How  much  money  would  it  take  to  per- 
suade the  builders  to  go  ahead  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  About  five  hundred  dollars,  the 
contractor  said.  There,  there,  don't  pucker  up  your 
pretty  forehead  worryin'  about  it. 

Avis.  I'm  thinking  of  Clyde.  I  really  believe 
Deacon  Pettibone  is  trying  to  force  him  to  resign 
before  his  year  is  out.  Why  is  he  so  against  my 
husband,  I  wonder? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  for  one  thing,  he  ain't  a 
prospective  son-in-law  an'  Mr.  Umpstead — bein'  a 
widower — might  be.  An'  if  the  minister  was  Jona- 
than's son-in-law,  he  could  run  the  church  pretty 
much  to  suit  himself.  Runnin'  the  Cosy  Corners 
Church  seems  about  as  important  to  Jonathan  Petti- 
bone  as  gettin'  elected  President  an'  runnin'  the 
United  States  might  seem  to  somebody  else. 

Avis.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  if  I  weren't  a  minister's  wife 
and  didn't  think  it  wicked  to  call  names,  I'd  tell 
Deacon  Pettibone  to  his  face  that  he  was  nothing 
but  a  miserable,  spiteful,  persecuting,  selfish  old 
spider — so  there !  But  of  course,  I  mustn't  lose  my 
temper. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  No,  nor  me  either.  Darn  Dea- 
con Pettibone  anyhow !  (Slight  pause.) 

Avis.  I'd  just  like  to  let  him  know  there  are 
other  ways  of  getting  money  than  borrowing  from 
him. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Old  Mr.  Carey  might  let  us 
have  it — he's  the  second  biggest  tax-payer  in  Cosy 


COSY  CORNERS  45 

Corners,  but  he's  so  sick  nobody's  allowed  even  to 
see  him. 

Avis.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  don't  say  anything  about  this 
to  anyone,  but  I  had  the  offer  of  an  engagement 
while  I  was  away,  to  play  in  a  high  class  vaudeville 
theatre  in  New  York,  and  as  it  happens  it's  the 
very  week  Clyde  wifl  be  away  on  that  College  Lec- 
ture trip.  I  turned  the  offer  down,  of  course,  but  a 
letter  followed  me  making  a  still  better  offer,  and— 
well,  it  seems  almost  like  fate.  If  I  only  dared  take 
the  chance  of  Clyde's  forgiving  me  for  it  after- 
wards ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Forgivin'  you  ?  I  don't  see  why 
he  shouldn't.  There's  nothin'  wicked  about  violin 
playin',  or  my  niece  in  Boston  wouldn't  have  had 
you  for  her  music  club. 

Avis.  But  Clyde's  sort  of  jealous  of  my  music. 
Yes,  he  is.  He  owns  it  himself.  He  doesn't  even 
like  me  to  practice  for  fear  I'll  be  tempted  back  to 
public  life.  He  says  he  feels  sometimes  like  shoot- 
ing holes  in  my  violin.  Of  course  he  always  laughs 
when  he  says  it — but  there's  a  fiery  flash  behind  the 
laugh.  It  may  be  that  far-off  strain  of  Italian  blood 
in  Clyde  that  makes  him  jealous — the  same  emo- 
tional something  that  goes  into  his  sermons  and 
makes  them  almost  sweep  you  off  your  feet.  But. 
oh,  how  I  should  love  to  put  the  money  in  his  dear 
hands  and  say,  "There,  just  wave  that  under  Deacon 
Pettibone's  nose  and  ask  him  how  he  likes  the  per- 
fume of  it."  Eh,  Mrs.  Bartlett  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Avis,  I  believe  if  Providence 
intends  for  that  buildin'  money  to  come  from  your 
playin',  you'll  find  that  Clyde  won't  be  allowed  to 
stand  in  the  way  of  it.  An'  if  you  want  my  advice, 
it's  this — think  it  over — an'  meantime  be  pickin'  out 
your  stage  clothes — the  ones  you'd  wear  if  you  de- 
cide to  go.  (Rises.) 


46  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.  I  haven't  very  long  in  which  to  make  up 
my  mind.  I  had  intended  to  write  and  reject  their 
offer  again  to-day. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Don't  you  do  it.  Sort  of  sound 
Clyde — from  a  distance  like — before  you  do.  An' 
listen.  Next  time  I  come  over,  I  want  to  see  you 
in  one  of  your  concert  dresses — an'  see  you  stand 
up  an'  play  in  it —  the  way  you  did  in  Boston,  an'  the 
way  you  will  if  you  take  that  vaudeville  engagement. 

Avis.  That's  very  simple,  if  it  would  give  you 
any  pleasure,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  It  would — an'  I'm  just  goin'  to 
hope  you'll  see  your  way  clear  to  earnin'  that  five 
hundred  dollars. 

Avis.  You're  a  darling!  (Kisses  MRS.  BART- 
LETT.,) Keep  on  hoping  and  hoping  hard.  (Shows 
MRS.  BARTLETT  to  door  and  opens  it,  disclosing 
SOPHIE  in  the  act  of  ringing  the  bell.) 

SOPHIE.    Oh,  how  do,  Mis'  Bartlett. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Rather  distantly)  How  do  you 
do,  Sophie  Anderson?  (She  exits.) 

Avis.  Well,  well,  Sophie,  I  suppose  that  bundle 
means  you  have  brought  something  to  the  rummage 
sale. 

SOPHIE.  Yes,  it's  grandma's  winter  coat.  It  has 
a  few  moth-holes  in  it,  but  it's  very  good  material. 

Avis.  All  right,  dear.  I'll  undo  it  after  awhile, 
when  I  begin  to  arrange  things  for  the  sale. 

SOPHIE.  I'm  glad  you're  back  from  New  York — 
Did  you  notice  how  offish  Mrs.  Bartlett  acted  with 
me  when  I  spoke  to  her  ? 

Avis.  Why,  no,  and  if  she  did,  it's  only  because 
she  had  other  things  in  her  thoughts  just  then.  You 
don't  mind  my  going  on  with  embroidering  this  slip- 
per, do  you?  (Takes  up  embroidery  again.) 

SOPHIE.  Not  at  all.  Excuse  me,  and  I  suppose 
you'll  think  it's  gush,  but  I  do  think  you're  the  sweet- 


COSY  CORNERS  47 

est  girl  that  ever  lived !  I  don't  wonder  Bob  used  to 
be  in  love  with  you — We've  had  an  awful  quarrel 
since  you've  been  away. 

Avis.     (Abstractedly)     Five  hundred  dollars. 

SOPHIE.    What  ? 

Avis.  Excuse  me,  dear,  I  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing else  for  a  moment. 

SOPHIE.  Do  you  and  Mr.  Hollister  have  quar- 
rels? 

Avis.  (With  dignity)  My  husband  doesn't  be- 
lieve in  quarrels.  He's  a  minister. 

SOPHIE.  Bob  and  I  aren't  even  on  speaking  terms. 
(Giggles.) 

Avis.  It's  nothing  serious,  though,  Sophie.  You're 
giggling! 

SOPHIE.  I  always  giggle  when  my  heart  is  break- 
ing. 

Avis.  (Thinking  of  the  church)  Money  is  so 
terribly  necessary  in  this  world  of  ours. 

SOPHIE.    But  money  has  nothing  to  do  with  it ! 

Avis.    (With  a  start)    Nothing  to  do  with  what? 

SOPHIE.  My  quarreling  with  Bob.  It's  all  his 
mother's  fault. 

Avis.  (Trying  to  take  an  interest  and  embroider- 
ing nervously)  How  can  that  be? 

SOPHIE.  She  doesn't  like  our  going  together  be- 
cause we're  both  so  young.  And  Bob  is  just  scared 
to  death  of  her,  and  when  I  told  him  last  Sunday 
that  since  he  was  such  a  scaredy  calf,  we'd  better  be 
nothing  but  the  merest  acquaintances  from  now  on, 
he  was  heartless  enough  to  say  "There  are  others." 

Av,is.  You  mustn't  let  trifling  squabbles  spoil 
your  and  Bob's  happiness.  Why,  I  wouldn't  have 
the  least  little  shadow  come  between  Clyde  and  me 
for  the  world !  (Bell  rings.)  That's  his  ring  now ! 
He  must  have  forgotten  his  key.  Oh,  let  me  hide 


48  COSY  CORNERS 

these  slippers!  Thank  heaven  I've  finished  them. 
(Runs  off  L.) 

SOPHIE.  (Calls  off  to  Avis)  Good-bye,  I'm  go- 
ing out  the  kitchen  way.  (Runs  into  AMANDA  en- 
tering from  kitchen.)  Oh,  excuse  me,  did  I  jar  you? 
(Exits  R.J 

AMANDA.  Snapped  a  rib  right  in  two,  an'  if  I 

wasn't  workin'  out  just  for  an  accommodation 

(Opens  door,  admitting  CLYDE. ) 

CLYDE.    Good  morning,  Amanda. 

AMANDA.  Good  afternoon.  It's  dinner  time  an' 
ready  to  put  on  the  table. 

CLYDE.  Well,  I'm  hungry  as  a  wolf.  (Sets  down 
satchel  and  takes  off  hat.)  Where's  Mrs.  Hollister? 

Avis.  (Enters  at  L.)  Here  I  am.  Oh,  it  seems 
ages  since  I  saw  you  last !  (Runs  into  his  arms.) 

CLYDE.     Centuries ! 

AMANDA.  Such  gushin' !  Dinner's  been  all  ready 
for  half  an  hour,  Mr.  Hollister. 

CLYDE.  Is  that  so?  I'm  sorry  my  train  couldn't 
be  persuaded  to  get  in  ahead  of  time.  Nothing 
would  have  pleased  me  better. 

CAMANDA  exits  at  R.J 

Avis.  Was  there  a  good  attendance  at  the  Church 
Workers'  Convention? 

CLYDE.  Fine.  It  was  all  very  inspiring.  Did  you 
have  a  good  time  in  New  York  ? 

Avis.  Except  for  the  visit  to  the  storage-house. 
A  storage-house  always  seems  to  me  a  kind  of  vault 
for  dead  furniture,  dead  belongings,  and  dead  hopes. 
I  was  glad  to  rescue  my  stage  clothes  and  bring  them 
all  to  Cosy  Corners  with  me. 

CLYDE.  Although  you'll  have  no  use  for  such 
things  here.  Thank  heaven  the  public  has  no  claim 
on  you  now! 


COSY  CORNERS  49 

Avis.  I — I'll  put  some  of  my  old  hats  and  things 
in  the  rummage  sale.  They're  out  of  style  now  and 
too  giddy  for  a  minister's  wife  anyhow. 

CLYDE.  ('AMANDA,  during  their  conversation, 
passes  in  and  out,  setting  tea-service,  chicken-pie, 
beans,  bread,  etc.,  on  the  table)  I  met  Mrs.  Bartlett 
down  street.  I  was  sorry  to  hear  the  building  had 
come  to  a  standstill. 

Avis.  Yes,  the  only  thing  that  has  moved  is  the 
plastering  there  in  the  living-room.  It's  cracked 
again.  But  everything's  got  to  come  out  right  some- 
how— church  and  all! 

CLYDE.  My  little  comforter !  How  did  I  ever  live 
without  you? 

AMANDA.  (Disapproving  of  threatened  embrace 
between  CLYDE  and  Avis,  sets  down  chair  with  a 
bang,  making  them  both  jump  back  with  a  start) 
Well,  as  long  as  dinner's  ready,  I  don't  see  any  sense 
in  your  standin*  up  there.  (Avis  and  CLYDE  sit,  and 
AMANDA  takes  her  stand  back  of  table.) 

Avis.    I  forgot  about  dinner. 

CLYDE.    Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Amanda. 

AMANDA.  Well,  ain't  we  goin'  to  have  grace  an' 
Bible  verses  ? 

CLYDE.  (As  he  and  Avis  bow  heads  reverently) 
"Take  therefore  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  for  the 
morrow  shall  take  thought  for  itself ;  sufficient  unto 
the  day  is  the  evil  thereof." 

Avis.  (In  subdued  tones)  "Ask  and  it  shall  be 
given  you;  seek  and  you  shall  find;  knock  and  it 
shall  be  opened  unto  you." 

AMANDA.  (In  tone  of  extreme  severity)  "All  his 
days  also  he  eateth  in  darkness,  and  he  hath  much 
sorrow  and  wrath  with  his  sickness."  (Joins  quo- 
tation to  her  personal  remarks  in  same  tone,  and 
without  a  pause.)  This  side-dish  is  some  of  Mis' 
Hollister's  cookin'  an'  she  calls  it  "toad  in  a  hole." 


50  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.  (Explains  to  CLYDEJ  But  it  really  has 
nothing  to  do  with  toads,  dear.  It's  beefsteak  cut- 
tings. 

CLYDE.  (After  he  is  served,  begins  to  eat)  This 
sharp  weather  has  given  me  a  splendid  appetite. 
Have  you  tasted  this  toad  in  a  hole,  Amanda  ? 

AMANDA.  Yes.  It  tasted  to  me  consid'rble  as  if 
the  toad  had  crawled  into  a  hole  an'  died.  (CLYDE 
and  Avis  hastily  put  down  knives  and  forks  in  an- 
noyance at  AMANDA'S  words.) 

CLYDE.  I  hope  you  didn't  burn  those  precious 
little  hands  of  yours  again  over  the  cook  stove. 

Avis.    I  didn't. 

CLYDE.  Are  you  quite  sure  now?  Let  me  see. 
(Avis  extends  both  hands  across  table.  CLYDE  looks 
at  them  and  is  about  to  kiss  them  when  AMANDA 
gives  a  thump  on  the  table  with  her  fist.) 

AMANDA.  H'm !  (Hands  a  cup  to  CLYDE  as  he 
and  Avis  separate  hastily.)  That  ain't  the  usual 
kind  of  coffee,  but  it's  Mis'  Hollister's  orders. 

Avis.  (Sweetly)  Not  my  order — my  suggestion, 
Amanda.  (To  CLYDE. )  Your  sermons  are  such  a 
tax  on  your  brain,  dear,  and  I  read  in  the  paper  that 
coffeeteen  assists  the  intellect.  But  if  you  don't 
care  for  it 

CLYDE.  (Tastes  contents  of  cup,  grimaces  horri- 
bly, and  almost  chokes)  My  wife,  I  never  tasted 
anything  like  it! 

AMANDA.  Well,  if  there's  any  objection  to  the 
way  /  make  coffee 

Avis.  But  there  isn't.  We  only  care  for  coffee- 
teen  occasionally. 

CLYDE.  Yes,  Amandy,  occasionally  is  quite  suffi- 
cient. 

AMANDA.  It  ain't  so  much  that  I'm  thinkin'  about 
the  coffee,  as  it  is  that  I'm  contemplatin'  the  fact 
that  this  is  the  first  place  in  my  life  I  was  ever  so 


COSY  CORNERS  51 

demeaned  as  not  to  set  down  an'  eat  with  the  family, 
an'  bein'  as  I  only  work  out  for  an  accomodation — 

CLYDE.  (Interrupts  with  smooth  dignity)  That's 
all,  Amandy.  If  we  want  anything  else,  we'll  call 
for  it. 

Avis.     Yes,  don't  trouble  yourself,  Amandy. 

AMANDA.  (Makes  CLYDE  and  Avis  jump  again 
as  she  slaps  table  for  emphasis)  Yes,  I  will.  Bein' 
a  good  Methodist,  I  always  try  to  do  my  duty  even 
in  the  home  of  a  Congregationalist.  (Exits  R.J 

Avis.  Now,  it  does  seem  a  pity,  doesn't  it,  that 
since  it  is  your  birthday,  and  you  came  home  to  find 
Amandy  cross  and  everything,  you  didn't  have  any 
nice  comfy  slippers  to  put  on  ?  Don't  you  think  so  ? 

CLYDE.    My  shoes  are  a  trifle  damp. 

Avis.    Shut  your  eyes  tight,  tight,  oh  so  tight. 

CLYDE.  You're  acting  very  mysteriously,  you  little 
witch !  What's  it  all  'about  ? 

Avis.  You'll  soon  find  out.  Don't  peek,  and  don't 
dare  flutter  an  eyelash  till  I  count  three.  (Reaches 
inside  door  L.  and  gets  slippers.  As  she  does  so 
AMANDA  enters  carrying  the  flat  cake  to  show  to 
CLYDE.  Avis  drops  slippers,  snatches  the  cake,  car- 
ries it  out  in  kitchen.  As  AMANDA  goes  into  kitchen 
again,  Avis  hastily  re-enters  and  gets  slippers.) 

CLYDE.  Well,  well,  what  are  all  these  prepara- 
tions ?  The  suspense  is  getting  to  be  awful ! 

Avis.  (With  a  slipper  in  each  hand,  holding  them 
up  before  him)  One,  two,  three. 

CLYDE.  (Opens  eyes,  and  exclaims  with  great 
appreciation)  Slippers ! 

Avis.  (Down  on  knees  beside  him,  explains  en- 
thusiastically) I  embroidered  them  all  myself. 
Aren't  they  darling?  Do  you  like  them?  Amandy 
couldn't  do  as  well,  could  she?  See  all  the  little 
holes  in  my  finger  where  the  needle  slipped ! 


52  COSY  CORNERS 

CLYDE.  Blessed,  busy  little  finger — what  a  shame ! 
(Kisses  finger.  She  sits  in  his  lap.) 

Avis.    How  do  you  like  the  design,  Clyde? 

CLYDE.    Why,  what  is  it? 

Avis.  It's  a  conventionalized  sea-serpent  chasing 
a  mermaid.  There  wasn't  room  enough  for  both  on 
one  slipper,  so  I  put  the  sea  serpent  on  one  foot  and 
the  mermaid  on  the  other.  (They  embrace  with 
laughing  childish  abandon.) 

CLYDE.  They're  wonderful,  dear.  What  can  I 
say  pretty  enough  to  thank  you?  (They  go  back  to 
table.) 

Avis.  Nothing,  because  I  know  all  your  pretty 
speeches  backward  by  heart.  Just  let  me  see  you 
wear  them  when  you  want  to  be  comfy  studying 
your  sermons,  and  that  will  be  all  the  thanks  I  want. 
(Instinctively  they  bend  to  kiss  one  another  across 
the  table.  AMANDA  enters  at  door  R.,  coughs  harsh- 
ly, and  they  start  apart,  looking  down  as  if  con- 
templating dish.) 

AMANDA.    Well,  what's  the  matter? 

CLYDE.  (Looking  at  dish  more  closely)  After 
all,  the  beans  are  not  much  burned. 

Avis.    (Same  manner)    Sure  enough,  they're  not. 

AMANDA.  (Severely)  Maybe  it's  the  beans,  but 
it  looked  considerable  to  me  as  if  you  an'  your  wife 
was  goin*  to  kiss  each  other. 

CLYDE.  (Defiantly)  Well,  is  there  anything  rep- 
rehensible in  that? 

AMANDA.  I  was  brought  up  a  strict  Methodist, 
an*  I  never  did  believe  in  young  married  folks  bein' 
too  familiar  with  each  other.  (Produces  newspaper, 
post  card  and  letter.)  Mail  just  come.  Biff  Per- 
kins brought  it.  (Hands  paper  to  CLYDE.)  Congre- 
gationalist.  Looks  thinner  every  week,  like  it  was 
goin'  in  a  decline  or  somethin'.  (Hands  post  card  to 
Avis.)  Says  your  dressmaker  can't  come  till  week 


COSY  CORNERS  53 

after  next.  (Hands  letter  to  CLYDE.)  Looks  like 
a  store  bill  when  you  hold  it  up  to  the  light.  Well. 
if  you're  through,  I'll  clear  the  table.  I've  got 
mincemeat  to  chop  for  the  refreshment  table  at  that 
rummage  sale. 

CLYDE.  Well,  I  suppose  an  hour's  meditation  in 
my  study  on  next  Sunday's  sermon  wouldn't  be  a 
bad  idea.  Please  see  that  I'm  not  disturbed,  Amandy. 
(Avis  and  CLYDE  rise  from  table.) 

AMANDA.  (To  herself,  as  she  clears  table)  If 
I'd  ever  thought  I'd  reached  my  time  of  life  and 
found  myself  choppin'  mince-meat  in  the  kitchen 
of  a  Congregationalist — But  seein'  as  I  only  work 
out  for  an  accommodation,  I  s'pose  I'd  ought  not  to 
complain.  (Exits  R.,  with  tray  and  dishes.) 

Avis.  Amandy's  positively  rude.  I'm  afraid  I 
haven't  much  discipline.  And  I'm  not  a  good  cook 
and  all-round  capable  as  I  should  like  to  be.  Playing 
the  violin — that  seems  all  I  was  ever  good  for. 

CLYDE.  (Refers  to  slippers)  But  haven't  you 
just  shod  me  with  fresh  inspiration  ? 

Avis.  But  I  want  to  do  more.  I  wish  I  could 
harness  my  musical  knowledge  some  way  to  make  it 
help  out  with  your  problems — really  help. 

CLYDE.  Just  to  have  you  here,  Avis,  and  to  know 
you  belong  to  me  is  help  enough.  You're  right  in- 
side my  heart,  and  I've  shut  and  locked  the  door. 

Avis.  Clyde,  I  want  to  ask  you  something — Sup- 
pose a  woman  determined  to  carry  out  a  certain 
course  of  conduct  unbeknown  to  the  man  she  loved, 
but  that  she  felt  was  for  his  good.  Could  he  for- 
give her  after  he  found  out  what  her  motives  had 
been? 

CLYDE.  (Amused)  What's  this?  Some  kind  of 
a  puzzle,  or  have  you  been  reading  another  of  those 
problem  novels  ? 


54  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.  Of  course,  I  didn't  mean  wicked  or  hor- 
rible deceit,  Clyde,  but  just  keeping  the  man  in  the 
dark  so  he  wouldn't  object  to  her  accomplishing 
something  big  and  wonderful  for  his  sake. 

CLYDE.  Nothing  big  and  wonderful  was  ever 
accomplished  by  deceit.  It's  an  ugly  word,  no  matter 
how  we  may  try  to  disguise  its  meaning.  I  don't 
like  to  hear  my  little  wife  plead  for  it  in  any  form. 

Avis.  I — I  wasn't  pleading — it  was  just  suppos- 
ing a  case,  you  know. 

CLYDE.  (Kindly)  Yes,  of  course,  I  know.  I 
wasn't  finding  fault — and  after  all,  you  have  sup- 
plied me  the  text  of  next  Sunday's  sermon.  "The 
House  Built  Upon  the  Sands."  (In  ministerial  man- 
ner.) No  matter  how  fair  a  mansion  love  may  build, 
if  it  rests  upon  a  foundation  of  deceit,  it  must  fall 
to  pieces  like  a  house  built  upon  the  sands. 

Avis.  But  I  didn't  mean  a  foundation  of  deceit, 
you  know — just  a  few  shingles. 

CLYDE.  (Laughs)  Hereafter  I  censor  that  library 
fiction  you  bring  home.  That  settles  it!  (Goes  to 
study.  Avis  stands  in  thoughtful  silence  for  a  mo- 
ment, gives  a  little  sigh  of  resignation,  and  puts  on 
her  hat  and  coat.) 

AMANDA.  (Comes  in  and  starts  to  remove  white 
table-cloth,  replacing  it  with  colored  spread)  H'm! 
Spot  on  the  table-cloth!  Soon  as  I  put  on  a  clean 

one,  somebody  spills  a  spot Deacon  Pettibone's 

standin'  down  on  the  corner  talkin*  to  Mis'  Ander- 
son. I  s'pose  he's  headin'  for  here. 

Avis.  Well,  please  remember  Clyde  said  he  didn't 
wish  to  be  disturbed.  (Bell  rings.) 

AMANDA.     (Resentfully)    There  goes  the  bell! 

Avis.  I'm  going  out  this  way  to  market.  I  don't 
feel  like  seeing  the  Deacon  just  now.  (Exits  hast- 
ily, Rj 

AMANDA.     (Talking  after  her  retreating  form) 


COSY  CORNERS  55 

I'm  just  a  rack  of  bones  from  tendin'  to  ev'rythin'— • 
an'  seein1  as  I  only  work  out  for  an  accommodation 
— (Admits  DEACON  at  c.)  Good  mornin'.  Deacon. 
Did  you  want  to  see  Mr.  Hollister  or  Mis'  Hollister, 
because  you  can't  see  neither  one? 

DEACON.    Parson  ain't  home? 

AMANDA.  In  his  study.  Whether  the  ceili'i'  is 
goin'  to  fall  down  on  him  or  not,  he  goes  right  on 
gettin*  his  sermons  ready.  Mis'  Hollister  is  gone  to 
market.  Do  you  want  to  look  at  the  livin'  room 
ceilin'? 

DEACON.  Mebbe  I'll  look  at  it,  an'  mebbe  I  won't. 
Like  as  not  all  of  it's  fell  down  that's  a-goin'  to.  No 
use  spendin'  the  church's  money  on  vanities. 

AMANDA.  I've  got  to  get  back  to  my  work.  Are 
you  cal-latin'  to  set  here  all  alone? 

DEACON.  You  ain't  objectin'  to  my  restin'  myself 
a  minute,  be  you  ? 

AMANDA.  No,  'tain't  nothin'  to  me  one  way  or 
t'other.  There's  Bunyan's  "Pilgrim's  Progress"  if 
you  want  to  look  at  it. 

DEACON.    Pack  of  lies! 

AMANDA.  (Picks  up  another  book)  Mebbe  you'd 
like  "Rules  for  Daily  Conduct." 

DEACON.    I  make  my  own  rules. 

AMANDA.  Well,  then,  there's  the  Bible.  You 
ain't  objectin'  to  the  Bible,  be  you? 

DEACON.  When  it's  fine  print  enough  to  put  your 
eyes  out — yes,  I  be.  (Bell  rings.) 

AMANDA.  That  bell's  been  ringin'  this  whole 
blessed  afternoon,  an*  bein*  as  I  only  work  out  for 
an  accommodation (Opens  door  c.) 

MORRIS.    (In  doorway)    Is  Mrs.  Hollister  in? 

AMANDA.  (Snappishly)  No,  nor  her  husban' 
either.  Be  you  a  book  agent? 

MORRIS.  (Steps  inside)  I'm  not,  fair  maiden, 
do  I  look  like  one? 


56  COSY  CORNERS 

AMANDA.  Yes,  you  do,  consid'rble.  I  don't  want 
to  get  my  life  insured,  if  that's  it. 

MORRIS.  I  don't  blame  you.  You're  likely  to  live 
another  sixty  years  without  it. 

AMANDA.    What  ? 

MORRIS.  Well,  if  there  isn't  my  old  friend,  Dea- 
con Pettibone !  I'll  have  speech  with  you  in  a  min- 
ute or  two  if  I  may,  Deacon,  in  Mrs.  Hollister's 
absence. 

AMANDA.    You  can't  sell  him  anything  either. 

MORRIS.    What  a  reader  of  character  you  are ! 

DEACON.  So  it's  you,  Granby.  Bad  pennies  al- 
ways turn  up.  Where'd  you  come  from  ? 

MORRIS.  Drove  over  from  Springfield  where  one 
of  my  attractions  is  playing.  Talk  about  dusty 

roads (As  AMANDA  starts  for  ktichen.)  Wait 

a  moment,  charming  Isabella.  Do  you  happen  to 
have  such  a  thing  in  the  country  as  a  whisk  broom  ? 

AMANDA.  No,  Mr.  Waggletongue.  We  brush 
our  clothes  with  a  curry-comb.  (Points  at  floor.) 
Just  look  at  all  that  dirt  you've  dragged  in.  I  don't 
know  which  is  the  most  pestiferous  around  a  house 
— men  or  red  ants !  (Exits  R.) 

DEACON.  Didn't  s'pose  you'd  ever  turn  up  here 
again,  seein'  the  Parson  married  your  fiddlin'  girl. 

MORRIS.  This  was  intended  simply  as  a  friendly 
call  on  the  turtle  doves.  You're  doing  all  you  can 
to  make  Cosy  Corners  a  bed  of  roses  for  them,  I 
suppose  ? 

DEACON.  No,  I  ain't.  I'm  doin'  all  I  can  to  show 
Hollister  he  ain't  the  man  for  the  place,  because  I 
consider  it  my  religious  duty. 

MORRIS.  My  dear  old  shining-light,  duty  always 
came  first  with  you !  But  Mrs.  Hollister — she  seems 
happy,  doesn't  she? 

DEACON.  She  went  to  New  York  last  week  pur- 
pose to  bring  back  everythin'  she  didn't  fetch  along 


COSY  CORNERS  57 

when  she  was  married.  I  s'pose  she's  happy  as  long 
as  Hollister  holds  his  job. 

MORRIS.  So  she  kept  it  under  her  bonnet — what 
she  really  went  for,  and  said  it  was  to  get  her  trunks  ? 

DEACON.    Eh?    What  you  talkin'  about,  Granby? 

MORRIS.  (Half  to  himself)  After  all,  her 
methods  don't  surprise  me.  Avis  is  too  tender- 
hearted to  make  the  break  and  leave  Hollister  all  at 
once.  But  she  can't  put  it  off  very  long. 

DEACON.  I'm  glad  I  ran  into  you,  Granby.  You 
say  Mis'  Hollister  intends  to  leave  the  parson  ?  No, 
no,  you're  wrong.  She's  all  wrapped  up  in  him. 

MORRIS.  Green  fields  and  running  brooks  and 
gently  ambling  country  sermons — they  might  hold 
some  women,  but  not  one  with  red  blood — the  genius 
— the  temperament  of  Avis  Merrill.  I  gave  her  just 
about  three  months  in  which  to  kick  over  the  traces, 
and,  by  Jove,  my  hunch  was  all  to  the  good.  Wel- 
come back  to  the  fold,  Claudia!  (CLYDE  opens 
study  door,  silently,  and  stands  listening,  unseen.) 
I  knew  it  meant  chucking  Hollister  and  returning  to 
the  concert  stage — that  it  was  only  a  question  of  a 
few  weeks,  perhaps  days — as  soon  as  I  heard  she 
had  played  that  concert  while  in  New  York ! 

CLYDE.  (Advancing  into  room)  Mr.  Granby 

^MORRIS  turns  with  surprised  exclamation.)  I  beg 
your  pardon — but  were  you  speaking  of  my  wife's 
having  played  a  concert  in  New  York  ? 

MORRIS.  Why,  my  dear  Hollister — I'm  sorry  if 
I've  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag.  I  didn't  know  you 
were  around.  The  Deacon  is  to  blame — he  got  me 
talking.  But  perhaps  Avis  is  breaking  into  the  game 
again  with  your  permission? 

DEACON.  Always  thought  a  fiddlin'  girl  wa'nt 
suited  to  marryin'  a  parson. 

MORRIS.  Frankly,  I  came  over  from  Springfield 
in  the  hope  of  persuading  the  little  woman  to  go  out 


58  COSY  CORNERS 

again  under  my  management.  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Hollister,  if  you've  taken  a  sensible  view  of  the  thing, 
and  resigned  to  it — and  are  tired  of  the  proposition 
here  in  Cosy  Corners  the  same  as  she  is — why,  I 
might  make  a  place  for  you  in  her  company.  Ad- 
vertising agent — the  box  office 

DEACON.  'Twouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  Hollister.  Not 
a  bad  idea  at  all.  Because  folks  fail  at  preachin'  the 
gospel  ain't  no  sign  they're  goin*  to  fail  at  everythin' 
else. 

CLYDE.  I  thank  you  both  for  kindly  offering  to 
run  my  affairs  for  me,  but  I  really  prefer  to  run 
them  without  your  assistance.  As  to  my  wife's 
having  played  in  public  while  she  was  in  New  York, 
you  are  misinformed.  She  did  not  even  have  her 
violin  along  with  her,  and  I'm  sure,  Mr.  Granby,  you 
have  nothing  to  say  that  would  interest  her  any  more 
than  it  has  interested  me.  I  think  I  shall  finish  writ- 
ing my  sermon  out  here,  gentlemen,  if  I'll  not  be 
disturbing  you  in  any  way. 

MORRIS.  You're  deuced  polite  with  your  impo- 
liteness, Hollister. 

DEACON.  Kickin'  us  out,  be  you — an*  me  a  Dea- 
con in  the  church ! 

MORRIS.  I'll  postpone  my  little  talk  with  Avis 
until  some  other  time. 

CLYDE.  That  is  extremely  advisable.  Good  after- 
noon. 

MORRIS.  Good  afternoon.  (Takes  newspaper 
from  pocket.)  By  the  way,  you  might  like  to  look 
over  the  New  York  paper — the  one  describing  the 
concert  where  Mrs.  Hollister  played.  No?  Then 
I'll  leave  it  right  here  on  the  table.  Perhaps  Avis 
would  like  to  look  at  it  herself.  Good  day. 

f  DEACON  and  MORRIS  exit  c.    CLYDE  takes  up  paper, 
but  hesitates  about  looking  at  it.    Phone  rings.) 


COSY  CORNERS  59 

CLYDE.  (At  phone)  Hello.  Yes,  Mr.  Hollister 
speaking.  Oh,  how  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Carey?  I'm 
sorry  to  hear  that — Indeed  I  will.  I'll  be  there 
inside  of  an  hour — the  next  car  over  from  here. 
Keep  up  hope  if  you  can.  He  may  pull  through  yet. 
Dark  hours  come  to  us  all — and  we  must  face  them 
as  bravely  as  we  can.  (Goes  into  study,  taking  paper 
•with  him.) 

AMANDA.  (Enters,  kitchen  door,  followed  by 
EDNA  PETTIBONE  and  little  MARIETTA^)  Well,  Edna, 
I  s'pose  it's  all  right  you  an'  Mis'  Hollister  bein' 
such  friends,  but  seems  like  you'd  oughtn't  to  come 
here  so  much  when  your  father  don't  approve  of  it. 
I  believe  in  children  honorin'  their  parents  no  matter 
if  'tain't  easy  to  do  it. 

MARIETTA.  (Prancing  from  kitchen  door  up  to 
EDNA  and  AMANDA )  Oh,  are  you  childrens,  Edna? 
I  thought  you  was  grown  up. 

AMANDA.  Where'd  you  come  from  ?  I  didn't  see 
you  taggin'  in  after  us. 

MARIETTA.  (Close  at  EDNA'S  side,  eyes  AMANDA 
accusingly)  People  oughtn't  to  speak  cross  to  or- 
phans, ought  they,  Edna? 

AMANDA.  Don't  you  make  up  one  of  them  orphan 
faces  at  me  the  way  you  do  to  Cynthia  Bartlett, 
comin'  in  without  knockin'  an'  askin'  whether  you're 
wanted  or  whether  you  ain't ! 

EDNA.  Marietta  bounced  out  of  Mrs.  Bartlett's 
yard  as  I  was  passing.  We  shan't  stay  long,  either 
of  us. 

MARIETTA.  I  bounced  out  because  I  wanted  to 
see  where  you  was  goin'. 

AMANDA.  Well,  you  saw,  didn't  you?  Now 
you'd  better  bounce  home  again. 

MARIETTA.  Don't  want  to,  'cause  I  want  to  see 
where  she's  goin'  next  What  you  been  cryin'  about, 
Edna? 


60  COSY  CORNERS 

AMANDA.  Little  girls  shouldn't  show  so  much 
curiosity.  (To  EDNA,  with  great  interest.)  What 
have  you  been  cryin'  about,  Edna? 

EDNA.  Mrs.  Hollister  will  be  here  soon,  Amandy  ? 

AMANDA.  She'd  ought  to  be.  She  only  went  to 
market. 

EDNA.  (Exhibits  bundle  she  is  carrying)  I 
brought  over  something  for  the  rummage  sale — a 
dress  I've  outgrown. 

MARIETTA.  Edna,  are  you  an'  old  Mr.  Umpstead 
goin'  to  be  married  ? 

EDNA.    (Shuddering)    Oh,  Marietta! 

AMANDA.  Land  sakes,  child,  stop  askin'  ques- 
tions   You  can  answer  her  before  me  just  as 

full  as  you're  a  mind  to. 

MARIETTA.  Edna,  are  you  goin'  to  marry  old  Mr. 
Umpstead  ? 

EDNA.    I'd  rather  die ! 

MARIETTA.  Oh,  just  wait  till  I  tell  that  to  Libbie 
an'  Jane ! 

AMANDA.  What  have  they  got  to  do  with  it,  the 
little  snips? 

MARIETTA.  I  heard  Libbie  sayin'  to  Jane  that 
Edna  was  goin'  to  marry  Mr.  Umpstead,  an'  Jane 
sayin'  to  Libbie,  wasn't  it  awful  Edna's  father  pickin' 
out  Edna's  beaux,  an'  Sophie  Anderson  said  Edna 
wouldn't  never  marry  anybody  but  Charlie  Bradbury 
— an'  then  they  chased  me  away. 

EDNA.  It's  common  gossip  everywhere,  and  I 
hate  it ! 

MARIETTA.  Wish  somebody  would  give  me  a 
cookie  to  eat. 

AMANDA.  There  ain't  nobody  goin'  to,  so  you'd 
better  run  along  now,  an'  let  Mis'  Bartlett  know  you 
ain't  been  kipnapped  or  anythin'. 

MARIETTA.  But  nobody  kidnaps  orphans,  'cause 
who  would  pay  the  reward  ? 


COSY  CORNERS  61 

AMANDA.  Well,  Lord  knows  /  wouldn't,  if  'twas 
some  orphans  I  could  mention ! 

MARIETTA.  Wish  somebody  would  give  me  a 
cookie  to  eat — Oh,  'Mandy,  you  snapped  your  jaws 
then  just  like  our  Fido  does  bitin'  fleas !  What 
made  you  ? 

AMANDA.  I'm  goin'  to  get  back  to  my  mince- 
meat. I  never  felt  so  much  like  choppin'  somethin' 
in  my  life!  (Exits  R.  into  kitchen.) 

Avis.     (Enters  door  c.)    Well,  Edna  dear ! 

MARIETTA.  Oh,  there's  Mrs.  Hollister  now.  I'm 
goin'  out  an'  watch  'Mandy  chop.  (Winningly,  as 
she  exits  R.)  Wish  somebody  would  give  me  a 
cookie 

Avis.    I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Edna. 

EDNA.  I  got  the  souvenir  postal  from  New  York. 
It  was  nice  to  think  you  remembered  me. 

Avis.     How  has  everything  been  going? 

EDNA.  I  made  an  excuse  to  bring  this  over  to 
the  sale  so  I  could  tell  you.  Father  tore  up  a  letter 
that  came  from  Charlie  Bradbury  yesterday  before 
I'd  a  chance  to  open  it.  I'd  promised  to  write  when 
I  got  his  address,  and  now  I  don't  even  know  where 
it  is! 

Avis.  Charlie  will  write  again.  That's  the  kind 
of  live  boy  he  is.  Just  you  wait ! 

EDNA.  And  maybe  father  will  get  hold  of  the 
letter  again.  He's  doing  everything  in  his  power  to 
break  me  up  with  Charlie  and  force  me  to  marry 
Mr.  Umpstead,  and  I'm  just  scared  to  death ! 

Avis.  But  he  can't  make  you  marry  anyone 
against  your  will. 

EDNA.  Sometimes  I'm  afraid  he  can.  Father  has 
always  bossed  me  around — and — and — oh,  some- 
times I  don't  think  anybody  can  be  in  his  right  mind 
that  is  as  cruel  as  he  is.  He — Oh,  Mrs.  Hollister,  he 
never  did  such  a  thing  when  I  was  little — but  in  the 


62  COSY  CORNERS 

past  six  months,  he's  struck  me  twice — with  the 
buggy  whip! 

Avis.  Edna — you  poor  child!  Why,  that's  out- 
rageous !  You  mustn't  submit  to  such  a  thing ! 

EDNA.  I  don't  think  he  realizes  how  terrible  it  is 
— the  pain.  At  the  thought  of  it,  I — I  just  haven't 
the  strength  to  stand  up  for  myself !  Mrs.  Hollister, 
what  I  wanted  to  ask  you  was  this — Rather  than 
marry  an  old  man  I  hate,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for 
me  to  run  away  from  home  and  take  a  good  position 
I've  been  offered? 

Avis.  A  good,  safe  position  with  people  you 
know,  Edna? 

EDNA.  Well,  it's  different  from  anything  any- 
body would  ever  expect  I  knew  how  to  do — but,  oh, 
I  can't  tell  even  you  just  -what  it  is,  for  fear  of  its 
getting  back  to  father ! 

Avis.  But  Edna  dear,  I  can't  advise  you  until  I 
know  what  you  have  in  mind. 

EDNA.  Well,  I — I — you  see,  I  promised  not  to 
breathe  it  to  a  soul. 

Avis.  But,  whoever  asked  you  to  make  such  a 
promise  ? 

CLYDE.  (Enters  from  study)  Am  I  interrupting 
a  private  conversation? 

EDNA.  (Nervously)  Oh,  not  at  all,  Mr.  Hollis- 
ter. I  just  brought  something  for  the  sale.  I'll  see 
you  again,  Mrs.  Hollister.  Soon.  Good-bye.  (Exits 
c.) 

Avis.  (Thoughtfully)  I'm  very  sorry  for  Edna 
Pettibone.  She's  so  unhappy  in  her  home ! 

CLYDE.  (With  a  bitterness  not  entirely  concealed) 
Surely  you  are  not  so  happy  in  your  own  home,  Avis, 
that  you  can  afford  to  waste  your  pity  on  other  peo- 
ple? 

Avis.  Yes,  I  am — happy  as  possible — almost. 
That  is,  I  would  be  if  it  weren't  for  the  disagreeable 


COSY  CORNERS  6j 

things  that  worry  me  because  they  worry  you — like 
the  builders  stopping  work  on  the  church,  and  all 
that.  (Goes  and  sits  on  arm  of  his  chair.)  Clyde, 
you  can't  imagine  how  homesick  I  was  to  see  you 
while  I  was  trotting  around  in  great  big  indifferent 
old  New  York!  Even  a  beautiful  bargain  hat  I 
bought  didn't  console  me,  except  for  a  quarter  of  a 
second. 

CLYDE.  (Accepts  her  caress  without  returning  it) 
Homesick  to  see  me?  That  has  a  pleasant  sound. 
By  the  way,  you  didn't  take  your  violin  with  you, 
did  you? 

Avis.  Yes,  I  did.  Fve  carried  it  with  me  on 
journeys  for  so  many  years — I  thought  it  might  be 
sort  of  company  for  me  this  time,  though  I  suppose 
that  sounds  silly  to  you.  fCLYDE  rises,  gets  his  hat 
and  puts  it  on.)  Are  you  going  somewhere,  dear? 

CLYDE.  (Looking  at  watch)  Yes.  It's  almost 
time  for  that  hourly  car  to  Southfield.  Mrs.  Carey 
phoned  me  the  doctors  have  said  Mr.  Carey  could 
not  last  through  the  night. 

Avis.  Poor  Mrs.  Carey!  He's  been  ill  a  long 
time,  but  I  don't  suppose  that  makes  it  any  easier  for 
her  to  give  him  up ! 

CLYDE.  It  is  a  sad  thing  when  a  break  of  any 
kind  comes,  to  separate  two  people  who  have  loved 
each  other. 

Avis.  Mrs.  Bartlett  said  the  Careys  had  been  so 
happy  together  all  their  married  life ! 

CLYDE.  Perhaps  because  the  chords  of  their  faith 
were  never  strained. 

Avis.  And  perhaps  because  the  big  world  outside 
had  nothing  so  precious  to  offer  either  of  them  as 
their  love  for  each  other. 

CLYDE.  That  reminds  me — I  haven't  yet  asked 
you  how  it  seemed  to  be  playing  your  violin  in  public 
again  ? 


64  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.    When  ? 

CLYDE.  This  past  week,  of  course,  while  you  were 
away. 

Avis.  But,  dearie  boy,  I  didn't  play  in  public, 
nor  even  take  my  violin  from  its  case,  as  it  happened. 

CLYDE.  (Unbelievingly)  What  admirable  self- 
control  ! 

Avis.  Clyde !  Why,  how  odd  that  sounded !  Al- 
most as  if  you  meant  to  be  sarcastic!  And  I  don't 
know  in  the  least  what  you  mean  by  "admirable  self- 
control." 

CLYDE.  Why,  your  having  the  will-power  to  keep 
from  putting  yourself  to  the  test  of  a  public  appear- 
ance, of  course.  You  see,  it  might  have  proved  to 
you  that  the  glamour  of  the  old  life  had  got  the 
better  of  your  love  for  home  and  me.  We  should 
be  entirely  willing  to  abide  by  the  result  of  such  an 
experiment — both  of  us. 

Avis.  But,  Clyde,  my  music  has  nothing  to  do 
with  my  love  for  you.  And,  after  all,  I'm  a  free 
woman.  You  mustn't  put  fetters  on  my  soul.  I  had 
a  perfect  right  to  take  my  violin  to  New  York,  yes, 
and  even  to  play  if  I  had  chosen  to  do  so.  It 
wouldn't  have  been  any  sin  against  our  love— or 
you. 

CLYDE.  (With  meaning)  Even  if  you  had  played 
in  public? 

Avis.    Even  if  I  had  played  in  public — yes. 

CLYDE.  (Slowly)  You  have  nothing  more  to  say 
to  me — to  tell  me — before  I  go? 

Avis.  Only  to  give  Mrs.  Carey  my  sincere  love 
and  sympathy. 

CLYDE.    (Cries  out  in  agony)    Avis!    Avis! 

Avis.  Clyde,  why  do  you  look  at  me  like  that? 
You — you  frighten  me !  Why  did  you  cry  out  as  if 
I — I  had  made  you  unhappy  ? 

CLYDE.    A  house  built  upon  the  sands.    To  think 


COSY  CORNERS  65 

that  house  should  be  yours  and  mine !    (Goes  hastily 
out  door  c.) 

Avis.  Clyde!  (Starts  to  open  door,  then  turns 
back.  Exclaims  piteously.)  What  have  I  done? 
(Sinks  down,  half  dazed,  speaking  almost  in  a  whis- 
per.) Dear  Lord,  what  have  I  done? 

CURTAIN 


ACT  III 
TIME:    A  few  hours  later.    Evening. 

SCENE:  Living-room  of  parsonage  as  before.  The 
sofa  is  filled  with  bundles  for  the  rummage  sale. 

DISCOVERED:  SOPHIE  and  BOB  standing  by  table. 
SOPHIE  is  holding  up  a  framed  announcement 
of  rummage  sale,  while  BOB  attaches  a  cord  at 
back. 

BOB.  I  painted  that  sign  myself  in  bright  red. 
When  it's  put  up  on  the  parsonage  gate,  nobody  can 
help  seeing  it. 

SOPHIE.  I  hope  folks  won't  think  it's  a  scarlet 
fever  sign  and  be  scared  to  come  in.  (Giggles.) 

BOB.  Gee,  that's  a  nice  thing  to  say  when  I  spent 
two  hours  painting  it. 

SOPHIE.  I  didn't  mean  it  wasn't  real  artistic,  Bob. 
It  is.  (Giggles.) 

BOB.    Is  it,  Sophie? 

SOPHIE.     Umhmph.     (Giggles.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Enters  from  study)  I  hope 
there'll  be  a  big  crowd  on  Saturday  afternoon.  Mr. 
Hollister's  study  is  so  light  and  large — just  the  place 
for  a  rummage-sale.  Well,  are  you  goin'  to  spend 
another  hour  fixin'  up  that  gate-sign?  (Bos  and 
SOPHIE  sigh.)  'Twon't  do  you  any  good  to  look 
sheepish.  You're  both  too  young  to  be  thinkin' 
about  courtin'  an'  I  won't  put  up  with  it. 

66 


COSY  CORNERS  67 

SOPHIE.  (Walking  away  from  BosJ  Who's 
thinking  about  courting,  I'd  like  to  know  ?  I'm  not. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Bob  is.  (SOPHIE,  pleased,  gig- 
gles self-consciously.)  Not  because  it's  you,  though, 
Sophie  Anderson.  He's  been  tryin'  to  make  love  to 
some  girl  or  other  ever  since  he  wore  dresses.  (En- 
ter LIBBIE  and  JANE  from  study.) 

BOB.     (Protestingly)    Now,  Maw! 

LIBBIE.  (Comes  to  R.  of  MRS.  BARTLETT  J  I've 
arranged  all  the  books  and  china  on  that  shelf,  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  the  way  you  told  me  to. 

JANE.  (Comes  to  L.  of  MRS.  BARTLETT  J  I've 
separated  the  children's  clothes  from  the  grown-ups. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Good!  I  don't  suppose  you'll 
be  needed  again  until  the  sale  Saturday,  either  of 
you.  Then  I'll  put  you  in  charge  of  the  smaller- 
articles  table. 

LIBBIE.  Which  one  of  us  in  charge,  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
please  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Both  of  you,  of  course,  you 
Siamese  twins. 

JANE.    We  are  no  longer  twins,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

LIBBIE.    No,  indeed,  Mrs.  Bartlett. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  What's  the  matter  with  you  two 
anyhow  ? 

LIBBIE.  We  are  mad  and  never  going  to  speak  to 
each  other  again. 

JANE.  At  least,  if  we  ever  do,  Libbie  has  got  to 
speak  first. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Now,  now,  children,  don't  be 
foolish.  One  of  you  has  got  to  speak  first — the  one 
whose  fault  it  was  to  begin  with. 

JANE.    It  was  Libbie's  fault  in  the  first  place. 

LIBBIE.  No,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  it  was  distinctly  Jane's. 
She  told  me  yesterday  that  she'd  wait  at  the  drug- 
store for  me  to  go  to  school  with  her,  and  when  I 
got  there  she'd  gone  on  ahead  without  me. 


68  COSY  CORNERS 

JANE.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I  had  merely  gone  to  do  an 
errand  for  my  Aunt  Clarissa,  and  when  I  came  back 
to  the  drug  store,  Jane  had  been  there  and  left  with- 
out leaving  any  message  for  me  whatever. 

LIBBIE.  But,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I  never  dreamed  of 
Jane's  coming  back! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  There  now,  it's  all  explained  and 
the  sky  is  clear  again. 

JANE.    But  Libbie's  got  to  speak  first. 

LIBBIE.  No,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  Jane  should  speak 
first. 

BOB.  Say,  why  don't  you  both  speak  first  and 
have  it  over  with?  Sophie,  you  count  "one,  two, 
three — speak !" 

SOPHIE.  All  right.  One — two — three — speak! 
(LIBBIE  and  JANE  open  mouths  elaborately,  but  do 
not  speak.) 

BOB.  Struck  dumb?  How  sad,  aind  both  so 
young!  ^SOPHIE  giggles.) 

LIBBIE.  I  knew  Jane  wouldn't  and  that's  why  I 
didn't. 

JANE.  I  knew  Libbie  wouldn't,  and  that's  why  I 
didn't. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why  can't  you  make  it  up  with- 
out speaking  at  all?  Just  rush  into  each  other's 
arms. 

LIBBIE.  (To  MRS.  BARTLETTJ  Yes,  why  can't 
we? 

JANE.  (To  everyone  in  general)  That  does  seem 
easier. 

BOB.  Sophie,  count  for  the  rush.  (He  gets  be- 
hind JANE.J 

SOPHIE.  (Gets  behind  LIBBIE^)  One — two — 
three — rush !  ( The  girls  stand  still,  but  suddenly 
BOB  and  SOPHIE  act  in  unison,  shoving  them  for- 
ward until  they  land  in  each  others'  arms.  Simul- 


COSY  CORNERS  69 

taneously  the  girls  cry  out  each  others'  names  and 
embrace.) 

LIBBIE.  Oh,  we'll  never,  never  get  angry  with 
each  other  again,  will  we? 

JANE.  I  should  say  not !  Life  without  you,  Lib- 
bie,  is  just  a  barren  waste. 

LIBBIE.  It's  nothing  more  than  a  monogamous 
prairie. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    What  kind  of  a  prairie? 

LIBBIE.  Monogamous.  That  means  one  day  is 
just  as  dreary  as  the  next. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  guess  "monotonous"  is  the 
word  you  was  feelin'  for,  Libbie. 

JANE.  Well,  anyhow,  she  meant  it's  something 
nobody  would  want  to  be.  Oh,  Libbie,  I'm  so  happy ! 

LIBBIE.  Oh,  Jane,  so  am  I!  (They  exit  at  c., 
chattering  of  how  they  came  to  misunderstand  each 
other.  "You  know,  I  thought  you  said  you'd  be 
there  when  I  got  there,"  etc.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  This  happens  every  other  day, 
regular.  I'm  going  to  see  how  they've  arranged  that 
big  table.  (Exits  into  study.) 

BOB.    Sophie,  let  me  hold  your  hand. 

SOPHIE.    What  for,  I'd  like  to  know? 

BOB.    Because  I'm  built  that  way. 

SOPHIE.    When  your  mother  isn't  around. 

BOB.    Sophie,  you're  awful  cold  to  me. 

SOPHIE.     Indeed? 

BOB.  Cold  as  liquid  air.  I'm  so  froze  if  you  beat 
me  against  the  wall,  I'd  bust  into  a  million  pieces. 

SOPHIE.  I'm  going  up  to  Boston  to  spend  the  rest 
of  the  winter  with  Aunt  Hattie. 

BOB.    Talking  to  me? 

SOPHIE.  No,  talking  to  myself.  There's  a  boarder 
over  to  Aunt  Hattie's  I'll  fall  in  love  with,  the  min- 
ute I  see  him — I  know  I  shall. 

BOB.    Well,  he'd  better  not  show  up  around  here. 


70  COSY  CORNERS 

SOPHIE.  He's  six  feet  an  inch  and  a  half  in 
height.  I  do  love  men  when  they're  extra  tall ! 

BOB.  Then  I  suppose  you'd  like  a  fellow  better  if 
he  went  around  on  stilts. 

SOPHIE.  His  neckties  are  so  quiet  and  gentle- 
manly. 

BOB.  (Feeling  his  bright  tie  consciously)  But 
sporty  ones  are  the  style. 

SOPHIE.  And  he  has  the  dearest  gentlemanly  feet! 

BOB.  (Trying  to  hide  his  feet)  Oh,  darn  it  all, 
what  has  a  fellow's  feet  got  to  do  with  love?  Gee! 
Thought  I  heard  ma  coming. 

SOPHIE.  More  than  that,  he's  so  manly  and  inde- 
pendent, his  own  mother  doesn't  dare  interfere  with 
him.  She  is  actually  afraid  to  say  a  word,  when  he 
is  talking  to  a  girl. 

BOB.  (Not  seeing  his  mother,  who  has  just  ap- 
peared in  study  door)  So's  my  mother  actually 
afraid  to  say  a  word  when  I'm  talking  to  a  girl ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Entering)  She  is,  is  she? 
Young  man,  you  march  out  there  an'  put  up  that 
sign  this  minute,  an'  then  go  home.  Stop  gapin'  at 
Sophie  Anderson,  an'  march! 

BOB.  (Takes  up  sign  and  exits  with  it,  door  c.) 
Well,  I'm  marchin',  ain't  I? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  The  idea  of  two  infants  that 
have  barely  got  through  cuttin'  their  teeth,  talkin' 
about  rebellin'  against  parental  authority.  Well,  let's 
put  the  rest  of  the  bundles  in  this  basket  an'  carry 
'em  into  the  study.  I  thought  you  came  here  to 
help. 

SOPHIE.  (Assists  packing  bundles)  I  did,  Mrs. 
Bartlett.  (Giggles.)  I  can  carry  this  all  by  myself 
if  you  want  me  to. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  I  don't.  I  wonder  what's 
keepin'  Mrs.  Hollister. 

SOPHIE.     She  said  she  might  call  around  before 


COSY  CORNERS  71 

she  came  home  and  tell  the  parents  of  the  infant 
class  it  wasn't  safe  for  them  to  come  to  Sunday 
School  until  the  ceiling  is  fixed.  (They  exit  into 
study,  after  loading  basket  with  remaining  bundles.) 

(Door  c.  opens,  and  AMANDA  walks  in,  in  street 
attire,  folio-wed  by  DEACON  PETTIBONE.,) 

AMANDA.  If  you've  got  anything  to  say  to  me, 
you  can  say  it  in  here.  I've  just  been  in  that  warm 
library  room  drawin'  out  a  book,  an'  I'm  not  goin' 
to  ketch  my  death  of  cold  in  the  night  air  talkin'  to 
a  man,  Deacon  or  no  Deacon. 

DEACON.  That's  all  right,  Amandy.  I'd  just  as 
soon  talk  here  as  anywhere.  (Goes  to  door  up  R. 
and  looks  off.)  Don't  believe  there's  any  danger  of 
that  ceilin'  fallin*  down — any  more  of  it.  Let  the 
scholars  set  their  benches  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room.  Mis'  Hollister's  always  a-findin'  fault  about 
somethin'. 

AMANDA.  But  I  put  up  with  it,  seein'  as  I  only 
work  out  for  an  accommodation. 

DEACON.  They're  both  away  from  home,  you 
said? 

AMANDA.  They  was  when  I  left  to  go  to  the 
library,  but  Mis'  Hollister  might  be  upstairs  now  for 
all  I  know.  Want  me  to  call  her? 

DEACON.  No.  Did  you  hear  any  words  between 
the  parson  an'  her  before  he  started  over  to  South- 
port? 

AMANDA.    How  did  you  know  he  started  ? 

DEACON.    Saw  him  gettin'  on  the  car. 

AMANDA.  Why  didn't  you  run  an'  ketch  up  with 
it,  an'  ask  him  for  yourself  if  there  was  any  words. 
I  always  try  to  tend  my  own  business,  even  if  I  do 
only  work  out  for  an  accommodation. 

DEACON.    (Hypocritically)  That's  right,  Amandy. 


72  COSY  CORNERS 

I  was  hopin'  you  did.  Good  girls  are  scarce  in  Cosy 
Corners —  If  somethin'  better  offered — like  keep- 
in'  house  for  a  widower  after  his  daughter  was 
married  an'  gone  away — you'd  be  glad  enough  to 
leave  here,  wouldn't  you? 

AMANDA.  Depends  on  how  much  more  wages 
they'd  offer  me. 

DEACON.  'Tain't  exactly  a  question  of  wages, 
'Mandy. 

AMANDA.    Tis  with  me. 

DEACON.  Well,  s'posin' — I'm  only  sayin'  "s'pos- 
in' " — but  s'posin  somebody  was  to  offer  to  marry 
you  instead  of  pay  in'  wages 

AMANDA.    I'd  like  to  see  anybody  try  it. 

DEACON.  What?  Ain't  you  'shamed  of  bein'  an 
old  maid  ? 

AMANDA.  Who's  an  old  maid?  I'm  a  good-dis- 
positioned  Methodist,  unmarried,  single  female  wo- 
man, an'  I'm  goin'  to  stay  one. 

DEACON.  Well,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel  about 
it,  no  use  talkin'  about  offerin'  you  the  chance  to 
better  yourself. 

AMANDA.    Where  are  you  goin'  ? 

DEACON.    Goin'  home. 

AMANDA.  (Grabs  him  by  the  coat  tail)  Stop 
right  where  you  are.  You  say  you  was  goin'  to,  an' 
say  it  quick,  or  you  don't  get  out  of  that  door  to- 
night ! 

DEACON.  Thought  you'd  change  your  mind  when 
you  saw  your  chance  a-goin'.  Set  right  down  here 
beside  me,  'Mandy.  (SOPHIE  peers  from  study, 
giggles  and  draws  back.)  What's  that? 

AMANDA.  It  sounded  like  a  cat  or  somethin'  like 
it.  Well,  I'm  a-settin'.  (Shooing  the  cat.)  Shoo! 

DEACON.  Scatt! — You  can  sit  jest  as  close  as 
you're  a  mind  to.  (He  sits  a  bit  closer  to  her,  both 
very  stiff  and  self-conscious.) 


COSY  CORNERS  73 

AMANDA.    It's  all  right  so  long  as  we  don't  touch. 

DEACON.  It's  a  considerable  come-down  for  me, 
'Mandy,  makin'  up  to  a  girl  that  works  out  an'  be- 
longs to  a  strange  congregation,  but  my  daughter  is 
liable  to  enter  the  bonds  of  matrimony  any  day  now, 
an'  leave  home  to  serve  her  lord  an'  master,  as  it's 
proper  all  females  should — an'  marryin'  you  would 
be  cheaper  than  payin'  wages.  It  may  spite  the  Hoi- 
listers  considerable,  your  leavin'  'em  in  the  midst  of 
so  many  tribulations  as  the  Lord  seems  to  be  sendin' 
on  'em,  but  once  havin'  made  up  my  mind,  there 
shan't  anythin'  stop  me  from  enterin'  the  marriage 
state  with  you.  Will  you  name  the  weddin'  day  ? 

AMANDA.  No,  I  won't !  If  you  think  I'm  goin'  to 
trade  off  a  place  where  I  run  the  roost  an'  git  good 
wages  for  it,  for  one  where  I'd  have  to  work  myself 
to  skin  an'  bone  for  my  board,  an'  mighty  poor 
board  at  that — an'  be  obliged  to  set  across  the  table 
from  an  old  weasel-eyed,  lantern-jawed  has-been 
like  you — jest  to  keep  from  bein'  called  an  old  maid 
— you're  considerable  mistaken ! 

DEACON.  (Rising,  furiously)  Then  what  did  you 
lead  me  on  to  propose  for,  you  ugly-faced  vinegar- 
tongued  female,  if  you  wa'nt  goin'  to  take  me? 

AMANDA.  'Cause  you've  twitted  me  more  than 
once  about  my  unwedded  state,  an'  I  wanted  every- 
body to  know  I  had  an  offer  from  skinflint  Deacon 
Pettibone,  an'  refused  him ! 

DEACON.  You  can't  prove  you  had  an  offer  from 
me.  Nobody  heard  me  make  it. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Walking  with  SOPHIE  outside 
study  door,  laughing)  Yes,  they  did,  Cousin  Jona- 
than. 

DEACON.  So  you've  been  listenin' — both  of  you? 
Well,  'twon't  do  no  good  to  tell  what  you've  heard, 
for  there  ain't  goin'  to  be  anybody  that'll  believe  but 
what  I  was  jokin'. 


74  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  They'll  have  a  chance  to,  Jona- 
than. I  ain't  got  no  special  love  for  'Mandy,  but  I'll 
testify  she's  had  a  genuine  proposal,  an'  the  day  of 
miracles  ain't  past !  (As  DEACON  with  angry  ex- 
clamation starts  for  door  to  living-room.)  Don't  go 
that  way.  The  plasterin*  is  loose,  an 

DEACON.  It  ain't,  neither.  You  'tend  to  your 
own  business — all  of  you — an'  I'll  tend  to  mine. 

AMANDA.  I  can  hardly  wait  till  mornin'  to  start 
round  the  neighborhood  tellin'  'bout  my  proposal. 
^DEACON,  with  smothered  exclamation  of  rage,  exits 
R.  into  living-room.)  I  guess  I'll  have  time  to  finish 
my  mince-meat  an'  take  in  a  couple  of  families  to- 
night. 

('Avis  enters  door  L.    She  has  on  long  coat,  com- 
pletely covering  her  dress.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  Avis,  I  didn't  know  you'd 
got  home !  Strange  things  have  happened  since  you 
went  out  for  your  walk. 

Avis.  (Anxiously)  Clyde  hasn't  telephoned  over 
from  Southport,  has  he  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  No,  it's  nothin'  like  that. 
Amandy (Terrific  crash  is  heard.) 

SOPHIE.     What's  that? 

Avis.    The  plastering! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    The  Deacon ! 

AMANDA.  Land  sakes,  am  I  a  widow  'fore  I've 
told  anybody? 

DEACON.  (Entering  form  R.,  covered  with  plas- 
ter.) Consarn  it — I'm  chokin'.  Why  didn't  some- 
body warn  me  'twasn't  safe  to  open  that  outside 
door  ?  My  suit  is  ruined ! 

Avis.  I'm  sorry,  Deacon  Pettibone,  but  I  can't 
help  feeling  glad  it  wasn't  my  little  infant  class  the 
plastering  fell  on. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.     You  said  you  had  to  be  con- 


COSY  CORNERS  75 

vinced  repairs  were  needed,  Jonathan.  I  reckon 
you're  convinced. 

DEACON.  Holliter's  been  crackin'  that  ceilin'  with 
a  hammer  jest  so  this  would  happen.  I've  got  a  few 
things  to  say  to  the  church  board  this  next  meetin', 
an'  I'm  a-goin  to  say  'em !  (Exits  c.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  of  all  the  sputterin'  I  ever 
heard !  He  was  so  mad  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
sayin',  Avis.  Don't  pay  any  attention  to  him.  (Low 
whistle  sounds  outside.) 

SOPHIE.  I  must  be  going,  Mrs.  Hollister.  Ma 
doesn't  like  for  me  to  be  out  too  late  alone. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  That  wa'nt  Bob  Bartlett  I  heard 
whistlin',  was  it? 

SOPHIE.  Mrs.  Bartlett,  I'm  not  going  because 
your  son  whistled,  even  if  I  did  recognize  the  sound. 
(Giggles.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  if  I  didn't  want  to  have 
a  few  minutes'  talk  with  Mrs.  Hollister,  I'd  soon 
attend  to  him  for  hangin'  around  when  I  told  him 
to  go  on  home ! 

SOPHIE.     Good-night. 

Avis.  Good-night,  Sophie.  Sorry  you  have  to 
go.  (Exit  SOPHIE,  c.) 

AMANDA.  (Enters  at  R.)  Don't  see  why  I  can't 
finish  choppin'  my  mince-meat  in  here,  seem'  as  I 
only  work  out  for  an  accommodation.  (Seats  her- 
self at  R.  with  chopping  bowl.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (To  Avis)  Is  your  head  any 
better,  dear,  than  before  you  took  your  walk  ? 

Avis.  Much  better.  So  much  so  that  when  I  came 
home  I  remembered  something  you  asked  of  me, 
and  did  it  to  please  you.  (Slips  off  her  coat,  show- 
ing elaborate  evening  dress.)  Just  as  I  looked  when 
I  played  at  your  cousin's  tea,  in  Boston. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  can't  think  of  anythin'  but  a 
beautiful  picture,  walkin'  right  out  of  its  frame. 


76  COSY  CORNERS 

AMANDA.  Vanity  of  vanities ;  all  is  vanity,  as  the 
Bible  says. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  But  sometimes  I  think  there's  as 
much  uplift  in  beauty  as  there  is  in  sermons. 

AMANDA.  (Looking  at  gown)  Is  that  skirt  real 
or  imitation  ?  (Feels  of  skirt.)  Real !  (Disapprov- 
ingly.) Such  extravagance !  When  you  goin' to  put 
on  the  waist? 

Avis.  Why,  it's  on  already,  Amanda.  This  is  all 
there  is. 

AMANDA.    Wear  any  furs  or  anythin'  with  it? 

Avis.    No,  why  should  I? 

AMANDA.  If  anyone  saw  me  in  a  thing  like  that 
flauntin'  immorality  an'  pneumonia  at  one  an'  the 
same  time — I'd  drop  dead  in  my  tracks — I  know  I 
would. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Maybe  it  would  be  the  person 
that  saw  you  wearin*  it  that  would  drop  dead, 
Amandy. 

AMANDA.  It's  the  most  scandalous  dress  I  ever 
laid  eyes  on.  I  don't  believe  in  lookin'  at  it.  How 
is  it  cut  in  the  back  ?  (Avis  turns  around  for  her  to 
see.  Loud  knocking  is  heard  off  R.J  There,  I  jest 
knew  it.  I  never  can  set  a  minute  that  somebody 
don't  start  knockin'  at  that  kitchen  door,  but  they 
ain't  goin'  to  set  down  an'  stop  me  from  goin'  out 
to  make  some  calls !  (Exits  R.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  we've  got  a  real  nice  lot  of 
things  arranged  for  that  rummage  sale  on  Saturday, 
an'  that  will  mean  that  the  ceilin'  in  there  gets  re- 
placed if  nothin'  else. 

"  Avis.    And  after  all,  we  can  only  take  a  step  at  a 
time  through  this  puzzling  world.     (Sighs  heavily.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  There'  there,  now,  you  mustn't 
take  what  Clyde  said  too  much  to  heart.  He'll  be  all 
right  again  when  he  gets  back  from  Southport.  I 


COSY  CORNERS  77 

suppose  it  was  just  takin'  your  violin  to  New  York 
with  you  that  made  him  think  you'd  got  tired  of  your 
home  and  your  life  here. 

Avis.  But,  of  course,  after  what  he  said,  my 
little  dream  of  earning  money  to  help  rebuild  the 
church  has  all  gone  up  in  smoke. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  suppose  so.  It  seems  to  me 
sometimes  that  men  grow  queerer  every  day,  an' 
that  the  more  you  give  in  to  their  notions,  the  more 
unreasonable  they  get.  Not  that  I'm  advisin'  you  to 
do  any  different.  Of  course  that's  between  you  an' 
Clyde. 

Avis.  If  the  money  isn't  raised  through  my  play- 
ing, though,  we  mustn't  lose  faith  but  that  somebody 
or  something  else  will  supply  it.  Clyde's  work  here 
must  go  on. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Of  course  it  must,  and  it  will. 
Well,  good-night,  dear.  I'll  see  you  again  soon. 

Avis.  Do,  Mrs.  Bartlett.  Good-night.  (Sees  her 
to  door  c.  Sits  at  desk  and  begins  to  write  a  letter.) 

(Door  c.  opens  silently  and  EDNA  steals  in.     She 
carries  a  satchel.) 

EDNA.    (In  a  whisper)    Mrs.  Hollister ! 

Avis.  (Springing  up)  Edna,  how  you  frightened 
me! 

EDNA.  (Cautiously)  I  didn't  ring  because  I 
didn't  want  Amandy  or  anyone  else  to  know  I  had 
come. 

Avis.  Sit  down,  dear.  I'm  all  alone,  as  it  hap- 
pens. 

EDNA.  (Taking  chair  facing  Avis)  No  one 
knows  I've  left  the  house.  I  climbed  from  my  bed- 
room down  the  back  porch  trellis,  and  got  to  the 
street  without  being  seen. 


78  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.  Why,  Edna,  what  made  you  do  that?  What 
has  happened? 

EDNA.  Just  what  I've  been  afraid  of.  To-night 
when  I  was  getting  supper,  Mr.  Umpstead  followed 
me  out  into  the  kitchen  and  asked  me  to  marry  him. 
He  said  he  and  father  were  both  anxious  for  the 
match,  and  he  hoped  I'd  be  sensible  about  it.  I 
couldn't  speak  for  a  minute.  The  very  thought  of  it 
made  me  sick  all  over.  Then  he  put  his  frowsy 
head  down  and  tried  to  kiss  me,  and  I  pushed  him 
away  and  ran  upstairs. 

Avis.  That  ought  to  settle  the  question,  I  should 
think. 

EDNA.  Yes,  you  would  think  so,  but  I'm  sure  it 
didn't.  I  heard  him  laughing  to  himself  as  if  he 
thought  it  all  a  joke.  Mrs.  Hollister — I  just  realized 
all  of  a  sudden  that  I  couldn't  argue  it  out  with 
father  and  face  one  of  his  rages — that  I  couldn't 
stand  it  at  home  any  longer.  I'm  going  to  New 
York  on  the  ten-thirty  to-night.  I've  got  the  address 
of  a  boarding-house  and  directions  for  getting  there, 
and  I'm  not  afraid.  There's  my  satchel,  all  packed. 

Avis.  If  the  worst  comes  to  the  worst,  that 
might  be  the  thing  for  you  to  do,  but  I  think  you're 
acting  hastily  now.  Wouldn't  it  be  wiser  and  braver 
for  you  just  to  go  quietly  back  to  your  home  and 
take  your  stand  once  for  all  against  being  treated 
like  a  child? 

EDNA.  But  you  don't  know  father,  and  what  a 
terrible  temper  he  has ! 

Avis.  Yes,  I  do,  Edna,  but  I  also  know  you  were 
eighteen  years  old  last  week  and  that  it  might  be 
different  with  your  father  if  he  could  once  be 
brought  to  realize  that  you're  now  your  own  mistress, 
and  can  never,  never  be  forced  to  marry  a  man  you 
don't  love. 


COSY  CORNERS  79 

EDNA.  I  suppose  you  think  I've  acted  like  a 
coward ! 

Avis.  No,  I  don't,  but  I  want  you  to  show  me 
how  very  brave  you  can  be. 

EDNA.  Oh,  Mrs.  Hollister,  if  I  only  could  bring 
myself  to  face  father  out  once — and  not  give  in 
when  I  know  he's  wrong  and  I'm  right — if  I  could 
get  over  the  fear  of  his  striking  me —  Well,  I'll  try, 
even  if  I  fail. 

Avis.    That's  the  girl. 

EDNA.  If  you  let  me  stay  here  until  late,  and 
everyone's  asleep,  I  can  climb  back  up  the  trellis  the 
way  I  came,  and  no  one  will  know  I've  been  away. 
(Bell  rings.)  Mercy,  I  don't  want  to  meet  any- 
body !  Where'll  I  go  ?  ( Avis  opens  study  door.) 

Avis.  Right  in  there,  dear.  It's  probably  some- 
one bringing  more  things  for  the  sale.  I'll  call  you 
when  the  coast  is  clear. 

('EDNA  exits  into  study.  Avis  goes  to  L.  and  calls 
AMANDA.  Finding  kitchen  empty  she  opens 
door  c.  herself.  MORRIS  GRANBY  steps  inside.) 

MORRIS.  Good-evening,  Claudia!  I  feared  I 
mightn't  find  you  at  home. 

Avis.  Well,  well,  Morris  Granby!  What  a  sur- 
prise! Whatever  brought  you  to  this  part  of  the 
country  again? 

MORRIS.  (Accepting  chair  she  motions  him  to 
occupy)  Chance,  partly.  Miss  Givens,  my  new 
soprano,  sang  at  the  Springfield  Music  Festival  last 
night,  and  I  said  to  myself  this  morning:  "I'll  just 
take  in  Cosy  Corners  on  my  way  home  and  see  how 
the  little  girl  is  hitting  it  off  as  a  minister's  wife." 

Avis.  Clyde  isn't  at  home  just  now,  but  I'm  ex- 
pecting him  any  moment. 

MORRIS.    Well,  I  hope  he  doesn't  break  his  neck 


8o  COSY  CORNERS 

to  get  here.  I  shouldn't  mind  at  all  having  a  little 
chat  with  you  alone. 

Avis.    It  certainly  seems  strange  to  see  you  again. 

MORRIS.  You're  looking  fine.  But  that  gown! 
You  weren't  intending  to  play  anywhere  this  even- 
ing, were  you? 

Avis.  Mercy,  no !  I'm  wearing  it  purely  by  acci- 
dent. I've  been  showing  it  to  one  of  my  Cosy  Cor- 
ners friends.  I  feel  rather  silly  in  it  sitting  here  in 
the  parsonage,  to  tell  the  truth.  Why,  I  haven't 
worn  a  concert  gown  before  since — let  me  see — the 
night  of  Mrs.  De  Puyster  Sands'  musicale. 

MORRIS.  I  remember — where  the  Russian  pianist 
got  so  jealous  of  the  hit  you  were  making  he  strewed 
the  rug  with  souvenirs  from  his  headpiece.  (Both 
laugh  a  little,  reminiscently.)  But  you  don't  really 
mean  to  tell  me  you  haven't  played  a  concert  since 
your  marriage? 

Avis.  Not  one.'  I'm  a  minister's  wife  now ;  have 
my  home  and  my  big  wonderful  husband  to  look 
after. 

MORRIS.  Don't  clink  your  fetters  in  my  ears, 
Avis,  it's  discord.  Music  was  the  passion  of  your 
life.  You  must  miss  it — I  know  you  do.  Why, 
you're  as  out  of  place  here  as  a  rose  in  a  soup  kettle. 

Avis.  Just  the  same  cynic  as  you  always  were, 
aren't  you,  Morris?  I  can't  expect  you  to  under- 
stand what  domestic  happiness  means! 

MORRIS.    You  poor  girl ! 

Avis.  Don't  you  dare  to  pity  me!  If  I  had  to 
choose  again  between  Clyde  and  my  music  as  a  life- 
time proposition,  my  choice  would  be  Clyde,  as  be- 
fore. 

MORRIS.  Well,  if  you  won't  allow  me  to  pity  you, 
at  least  you  can't  stop  me  from  pitying  myself. 
Didn't  I  see  you  grow  from  a  child-wonder  into 
young  womanhood — only  to  lose  you  at  the  start  of 


COSY  CORNERS  81 

your  real  career?  Oh,  it  wasn't  the  financial  loss  so 
much  I  minded.  Music  is  my  bug,  you  know. 

Avis.  (With  real  sympathy)  Yes,  I  know.  You 
should  have  been  an  artist  yourself,  Morris,  and  had 
your  own  career.  Every  one  of  us  knew  that. 

MORRIS.  Avis,  something  has  come  into  your 
voice  that  shows  you've  lived  and  loved.  That  was 
the  one  quality  your  playing  used  to  lack.  Gad,  it 
makes  me  tremble  to  think  how  you  could  electrify 
them  now.  Don't  you  sometimes  long  to  stand  be- 
fore a  big  audience  again — wouldn't  the  thunder  of 
their  applause  be  sweet  to  you  ? 

Avis.  I  wonder?  Sometimes  in  my  dreams  at 
night,  I  fancy  I'm  out  in  the  middle  of  a  big  concert 
platform,  drawing  that  live  something  from  my 
violin  that  only  the  presence  of  a  crowd  seemed  to 
inspire.  (Gives  slight  start  and  changes  her  tone.) 
But  let's  talk  about  something  else,  besides  the 
might-have-beens  and  all  that.  It  seems  a  sort  of 
disloyalty  to  Clyde,  though  I  didn't  mean  it  so. 

MORRIS.  Don't  pile  your  domesticity  on  too  thick, 
little  girl.  You  didn't  think  it  disloyal  when  you 
played  that  Charities'  date  last  week  in  New  York. 
I'm  a  wise  old  owl,  you  know,  and  little  escapes  me. 

Avis.    What  Charities'  date  do  you  mean  ? 

MORRIS.  The  Silver  Shield  Associated.  I  read 
your  name  among  the  other  artists  in  the  New  York 
World. 

Avis.  Then  the  New  York  World  got  me  mixed 
with  somebody  else.  On  my  word  of  honor,  Morris, 
if  such  a  notice  appeared,  it  was  all  a  mistake ! 

MORRIS.  You  don't  mean  it!  By  Jove!  Then 
Hollister  was  right  and  I  was  wrong! 

Avis.  You've  seen  Clyde?  You  were  here  to-day, 
once  before? 

MORRIS.  Yes — briefly — and  gave  Hollister  a  copy 
of  the  paper. 


82  COSY  CORNERS 

Avis.  Oh,  poor  Clyde!  Now  I  understand  why 
he  acted  so  unlike  himself  before  he  left  the  house. 
If  I  had  only  known !  Why  didn't  he  tell  me  he  had 
seen  you? 

MORRIS.  You  don't  deny  you're  negotiating  with 
the  Quimby  Bureau  to  play  a  week  in  vaudeville 
with  special  costumes,  and  at  fancy  prices? 

Avis.  (Astonished)  You — you  knew  I'd  had 
that  offer? 

MORRIS.  Why  not?  I  was  responsible  for  their 
having  made  it.  After  I  read  of  your  appearance, 
I  was  even  looking  forward  to  your  taking  a  special 
tour  under  my  management. 

Avis.  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you,  Morris,  but 
my  only  interest  in  the  Quimby  offer  was  that  it 
might  help  me  to  turn  over  some  money  to  our 
church  building  fund  as  a  help  to  my  husband's 
work  here  in  Cosy  Corners.  So  I  did  dally  with  the 
temptation  of  playing  that  one  week — I  don't  deny 
it.  Not  that  I  had  any  idea  of  going  back  to  pro- 
fessional life — I  hadn't.  And  I  know  now  I  should 
never  have  even  considered  the  Quimby  proposal.  I 
was  just  wording  a  letter  to  them  as  you  came  in, 
turning  their  offer  down. 

MORRIS.  That's  one  on  me,  then,  and  I  own  I 
feel  pretty  well  sold  out.  (Gets  up  and  takes  his 
hat.)  I'll  be  going.  I  might  as  well.  Accept  my 
apologies  for  having  disturbed  the  ministerial  pond 
lilies  on  the  stagnant  mill-pond  of  your  life  here. 

Avis.  Don't  be  grouchy,  Morris.  You'll  discover 
a  violinist  some  day  so  much  bigger  than  I,  you'll 
forget  I  was  ever  on  your  list. 

MORRIS.  You're  not  helping  matters  any  by  manu- 
facturing words  of  consolation,  Avis.  When  Fate 
hands  me  a  wallop  like  this,  somebody  has  got  to 
pay.  I  had  some  twinges  of  conscience  about  advis- 
ing the  girl  as  I  did  at  first — little  fool ! 


COSY  CORNERS  83 

Avis.    Advising  what  girl? 

MORRIS.  A  pretty  little  idiot  here  in  Cosy  Corners. 
She's  going  on  the  train  with  me  to  New  York  to- 
night— expects  to  be  a  professional  dancer.  She 
stands  about  as  much  chance  in  that  line  as  I  do  of 
making  my  debut  as  a  prima  donna. 

Avis.  Then  why  should  you  encourage  her  to 
leave  her  home?  (Thinks  of  EDNA.)  Oh,  Morris 
— the  girl  ?  Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  she  is  ? 

MORRIS.    Ah — that's  my  guilty  secret ! 

Avis.  If  I  guess  her  name  correctly,  will  you  tell 
me  then? 

MORRIS.  Ha,  ha,  Avis,  I  was  just  spoofing  you. 
There  isn't  any  such  girl.  Guileless  as  ever,  aren't 
you  ?  No,  there's  no  occasion  for  a  "rescue-the-per- 
ishing"  act,  even  if  you  are  a  minister's  wife.  Well, 
so  long! 

Avis.    (Gives  him  her  hand)    Good-bye,  Morris. 

(  CLYDE  opens  door  and  walks  in.) 

MORRIS.  How  do  again,  Mr.  Hollister?  I  really 
had  to  have  a  few  words  with  my  ex-star,  you  know, 
but  I'm  going  now. 

CLYDE.  No,  wait,  please,  Mr.  Granby.  I  have 
some  news  for  Mrs.  Hollister  I  think  you  might  be 
interested  to  hear.  (Hands  telegram  to  AvisJ 
They  gave  it  to  me  as  I  passed  the  station. 

MORRIS.  I'm  always  interested  in  anything  that 
concerns  Mrs.  Hollister. 

Avis.  (Glancing  at  telegram)  From  the  Quimby 
agency.  Oh,  Clyde,  it's  really  too  bad  you  should 
know  about  the  Quimby's.  I  hadn't  meant  that  you 
should.  And  especially  since  you  saw  that  news- 
paper notice ;  it  makes  it  all  sort  of  hard  to  explain. 
But  I  was  going  to  turn  this  offer  down — you  can 
see  the  addressed  envelope  there  on  my  desk — and 


84  COSY  CORNERS 

that  newspaper  notice  was  all  a  mistake  in  the  first 
place — and  the  reason  I  was  writing  to  the  Quimby's 
was 

CLYDE.  I'm  neither  asking  explanations  nor  de- 
manding excuses,  Avis,  but  please  don't  try  to  make 
a  fool  of  me,  whatever  you  do.  It's  perfectly  evident 
what  you  and  your  friend  have  been  planning  here — 
you  tricked  out  in  your  tinsel  finery  to  please  him ! 

Avis.  Kindly  go,  Morris.  I'm  sorry  you  came 
just  at  this  time — 

CLYDE.    No,  please  remain,  if  you  don't  mind. 

MORRIS.  (Looking  at  watch)  There's  half  an 
hour  yet  until  train  time,  but  what's  the  idea,  old 
man? 

CLYDE.  The  idea  is  that  I  agree  with  you  in  think- 
ing my  wife  made  a  mistake  in  ever  leaving  the  con- 
cert platform  and  that  it  is  best  for  her  to  return 
to  it. 

Avis.     (Shocked)     Clyde ! 

CLYDE.  The  half  hour  between  now  and  train 
time  will  doubtless  give  you  sufficient  opportunity  to 
discuss  the  necessary  contracts,  and  so  forth.  I  give 
you  my  word  I  shall  enter  no  objections.  Excuse 
me — I  shall  not  interrupt  again.  (Starts  for  study.) 

Avis.  (Runs  after  him)  Clyde,  listen,  you  must! 
Why,  I  hadn't  a  thought  of  going  back  to  the  con- 
cert stage.  I  was  offered  a  short  engagement  that 
would  have  paid  enough  to  help  keep  those  builders 
at  work — but  I'd  made  up  my  mind  it  wasn't  best  to 
take  it.  You've  always  had  that  strange  fear  about 
my  music — but,  my  dear,  you  come  first.  Won't 
you  give  me  another  chance  to  prove  you  come  first  ? 
('CLYDE  struggles  with  himself  for  a  moment  before 
replying,  and  MORRIS  slips  out  of  the  door.)  Clyde, 
answer  me !  How  can  you  act  like  this  !  Your  loss 
of  faith  in  me  at  the  very  first  test  of  it  hurts — 
hurts  more  than  anything  else  ever  has  in  all  my  life 


COSY  CORNERS  85 

before.  Hasn't  our  life  together  been  a  precious 
thing — isn't  it  worth  fighting  for? 

CLYDE.  I've  been  plunged  into  perdition,  Avis. 
It  isn't  so  easy  to  climb  back. 

Avis.  If  you  could  only  have  been  here  from  the 
first — heard  every  word  that  passed  between  Morris 
and  me — you'd  know  how  you  have  misjudged  me. 

EDNA.  (Comes  from  study)  Mr.  Hollister,  may 
I  speak  in  ? 

CLYDE.    Edna ! 

EDNA.  I  was  in  your  study  when  Mr.  Granby 
came — have  been  there  all  this  time.  But  I  wanted 
him  to  go  before  I  came  out  so  I  could  tell  you 
everything.  He's  a  bad  man — a  wicked  one — I  know 

now (Sharp  rap  comes  on  door,  made  by  the 

butt  of  a  whip.) 

Avis.  What's  that?  ('CLYDE  flings  door  open. 
DEACON  enters,  carrying  buggy  whip.) 

DEACON.  Excuse  me,  Hollister,  but  I  thought  I 
saw  Edna  through  the  study  window,  an'  here  she 
is!  What  are  you  runnin'  over  here  at  night  for, 
when  you  ought  to  be  at  home  an'  in  bed  ? 

EDNA.  (Frightened)  I — I  was  coming  home 
pretty  soon,  Father.  I — I  just  wanted  to  see  Mrs. 
Hollister.  There's  to  be  a  sale  on  Saturday 

DEACON.  What  you  got  on  your  Sunday  clothes 
for  ?  You  wa'nt  goin'  to  a  dance  unbeknown  to  me  ? 

EDNA.    No,  no! 

DEACON.  You  wa'nt  plannin'  to  run  away  from 
home?  You  rebellious (Raises  whip.) 

EDNA.  Don't  strike  me  again  with  that,  Father. 
I  was  coming  right  home,  indeed  I  was.  Mrs.  Hol- 
lister, wasn't  I  going  back  home? 

Avis.  She  was  going  back,  Mr.  Pettibone,  she 
told  me  so  herself.  There's  nothing  to  be  gained  by 
threatening  her. 


86  COSY  CORNERS 

DEACON.  That's  my  business,  Mis'  Hollister.  But 

as  long  as  she  was  comin'  home  right  away 

Whose  satchel  is  that?  Looks  like  some  one  was 
cal'latin'  to  take  a  train 

EDNA.  (As  DEACON  comes  toward  her)  It's 
Mrs.  Hollister's,  Father.  I — I  was  helping  her  pack 
it.  It's  Mrs.  Hollister's.  She  asked  me  to  help.  Oh, 
Father — Please ! 

DEACON.  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  she's  goin*  some- 
where instead  of  you.  Come  along.  I've  got  the 
buggy  down  to  the  corner.  Come  along.  (Almost 
throws  EDNA  out  of  door.)  Good-night.  (Exits  c., 
after  EDNA.) 

CLYDE.  So  Edna  knew  that  you  and  Granby  were 
planning  to  leave  this  house  together  to-night  before 
I  came! 

Avis.  You  can  believe  such  a  thing  of  me — your 
wife!  You  dare  to  believe  it? 

CLYDE.  (Points  to  satchel)  With  the  proof  of 
your  intention  confronting  me — what  other  explana- 
tion can  there  be? 

Avis.  None.  I'm  through  with  explanations.  I'll 
not  humiliate  myself  another  moment.  (Goes  to 
take  up  her  violin  from  top  of  desk.  CLYDE  rushes 
and  seizes  it.)  Give  me  my  violin ! 

CLYDE.     (Waving  her  back)    No! 

Avis.  (As  he  starts  away  from  her,  holding  vio- 
lin behind  him)  What  are  you  going  to  do?  Give 
that  back  to  me.  It's  very  old  and  precious.  Don't 
harm  it,  Clyde!  Don't  put  my  love  to  this  fearful 
test!  That  violin  is  as  sacred  to  me  as  if  it  were 
alive — sacred ! 

CLYDE.  Yes — more  sacred  than  your  marriage 
vows — an  idol  of  wood — a  devil  it  is  my  duty  to 
destroy !  (Breaks  violin  over  corner  of  chair.) 


COSY  CORNERS  87 

Avis.  My  violin — oh !  (With  sudden  determina- 
tion.) You  have  decided  it.  I'm  going  back  to  the 
old  life — forever !  (Gets  long  cape  from  rack,  takes 
hat  and  goes  out  door  cj 

CURTAIN 


ACT  IV. 

TIME  :    Four  months  later. 
SCENE  :    The  same. 

DISCOVERED:     AMANDA,   setting  pan   of  flout    on 
chair  by  table.    SOPHIE  is  at  table  mixing  bread. 

SOPHIE.  Of  course  I  can  mix  the  bread,  Amandy. 
I'm  so  happy  to  think  of  seeing  Mrs.  Hollister  again, 
I  could  mix  a  whole  wagon  load  without  getting 
tired. 

AMANDA.  I  don't  s'pose  she'll  stay  long  enough 
to  set  down  to  a  meal.  Any  woman  that's  been  gone 
from  her  lawful  wedded  husband  for  nearly  four 
months,  needn't  expect  a  brass-band  an'  a  reception 
committee  when  she's  only  come  back  to  pack  up  the 
odds  an'  ends  belongin'  to  her,  an'  light  out  again. 

SOPHIE.  I'll  be  just  as  glad  to  see  her  as  if  I 
were  a  brass  band  and  a  reception  committee  rolled 
into  one.  Don't  you  look  forward  to  it,  too,  'Mandy  ? 

AMANDA.  (Takes  up  pan  of  apples)  Well,  I 
ain't  got  nothin'  personal  against  her,  except  her 
runnin'  around  the  country  fiddlin'  an*  lettin'  every- 
body see  her  in  them  sawed-off  waists.  But  I  ain't 
crazy  for  her  to  come  back.  I  run  things  without 
her  around  here  now  to  suit  myself,  and  that's 
somethin'.  (Starts  to  peel  apples.) 

SOPHIE.  Amandy,  whatever  made  Mrs.  Hollister 
88 


COSY  CORNERS  89 

leave  Cosy  Corners  in  the  first  place?  I  know  she 
wasn't  to  blame,  nor  Mr.  Hollister  either — but  some- 
thing dreadful  must  have  happened. 

AMANDA.  I  wish  folks'd  stop  askin'  me  questions. 
I  was  over  to  Mrs.  Smith's  tellin'  about  my  proposal 
from  Deacon  Pettibone,  when  whatever  happened 
did  happen,  an'  the  next  mornin,'  there  was  Mr. 
Hollister  lookin'  white  as  a  wax  candle,  informin' 
me  his  wife  had  gone  away  for  a  few  days.  The  few 
days  has  turned  out  to  be  four  months  instead. 
Seems  like  I'd  ought  to  be  told  somethin'  when  I  only 
work  out  for  an  accommodation !  (A  whistle  sounds 
outside.) 

SOPHIE.  Oh,  Amandy,  that's  Bob's  whistle !  Not 
that  I  care  whether  he's  coming  in  here  or  not,  but 
do  take  down  my  curl  paper,  please,  Amandy.  My 
hands  are  all  stuck  up  with  dough. 

AMANDA.  I'm  busy  with  apple  peelin',  an'  if  Bob 
Bartlett  never  sees  anythin'  more  immodest  than  a 
curl-paper,  he's  doin'  well.  (Bell  rings.)  Seems  to 
me  if  it's  nobody  but  Bob  Bartlett,  he  might  have 
come  in  the  kitchen  way.  (Opens  door.) 

SOPHIE.    Bob  Bartlett  isn't  a  nobody ! 

BOB.  Ain't  I,  Sophie?  (Steps  inside,  grinning, 
but  uneasy.) 

AMANDA.    Good  gracious,  somethin's  b'ilin  over ! 

SOPHIE.  (As  AMANDA  starts  for  kitchen) 
Amandy,  if  I  were  on  speaking  terms  with  Bob 
Bartlett,  I  would  tell  him  his  ma  is  in  the  study  talk- 
ing to  Mr.  Hollister,  and  that  he'd  better  run  in 
there  for  fear  I'll  try  to  vamp  him,  in  her  absence. 
(Giggles.  AMANDA  exits  into  kitchen.) 

BOB.  Sophie,  your  curlimekew  is  coming  loose. 
Let  me  fix  it. 

SOPHIE.  Bob  Bartlett,  don't  you  dare!  (She 
goes  to  one  side  of  the  table,  he  stands  the  other.) 


90  COSY  CORNERS 

BOB.  You've  had  a  grouch  for  a  week.  It  isn't 
fair  not  to  tell  a  fellow  what's  he's  done. 

SOPHIE.  (In  tones  of  mysterious  accusation) 
Sunday  night ! 

BOB.  ( Aggrievedly  )>  There  you  go  again !  What 
about  Sunday  night? 

SOPHIE.    What's  the  use  of  people  pretending? 

BOB.     (Reflectively)     Sunday  night! 

SOPHIE.     Sunday  night. 

BOB.    Went  to  church  with  you. 

SOPHIE.    And  Phoebe  Hoskins. 

BOB.    Sat  with  you. 

SOPHIE.    And  Phoebe  Hoskins. 

BOB.    Told  you  "Good-night." 

SOPHIE.  And  Phoebe  Hoskins !  I  waited  on  the 
sidewalk,  but  there  was  a  bright  light  inside  the  front 
door  curtains,  and  I  saw  your  two  heads  against  it. 
(Sobs  convulsively,  as  she  goes  back  to  mixing 
bread.)  If  you  don't  wipe  my  eyes,  my  tears  will 
drop  into  Mrs.  Hollister's  bread  and  make  it  bitter. 

BOB.  (Takes  his  handkerchief  and  wipes  her 
eyes)  There.  Anybody'd  think  I'd  kissed  Phoebe 
Hoskins  from  the  way  you  act. 

SOPHIE.  Bob  Bartlett,  you're  not  going  to  deny 
it? 

BOB.  (With  virtuous  indignation)  I  guess  a  fel- 
low can  bite  off  a  piece  of  chewing  gum  a  girl's 
holding  in  her  mouth  without  kissing  her  if  4ie  wants 
to,  can't  he? 

SOPHIE.    Oh,  Bob,  was  that  all? 

BOB.  (Conscientiously)  Well,  I  sort  of  bumped 
her  face  doing  it — calculated  the  distance  wrong,  but 
you  know  there's  only  one  girl  in  the  world  for  me ! 
(Puts  his  hands  in  dough  along  with  hers.) 

SOPHIE.  You'll  spoil  the  -bread.  What  are  you 
trying,  to  do  ? 

BOB.    Trying  to  put  a  ring  on  your  finger.     I've 


COSY  CORNERS  91 

dropped  it.  Where  is  it?  What's  this  stuff  made 
of — glue  ? 

SOPHIE.  (As  he  struggles  with  dough)  Take 
your  hands  out.  'Mandy'll  kill  us! 

BOB.    I've  got  to  find  that  ring.    It's  almost  gold ! 

SOPHIE.  Suppose  someone  should  bite  on  it  and 
break  a  tooth! 

AMANDA.  (Calls  from  kitchen)  Sophie,  is  that 
bread  about  ready  to  put  in  tins  ?  CSopmE  and  BOB 
start  away  from  table,  putting  their  hands  behind 
them.) 

BOB.  Whoever  swallows  that  bread  can  set  up  for 
a  jewelry  store. 

SOPHIE.  You'd  better  let  me  work  at  it  a  little 
longer,  'Mandy.  f  AMANDA  enters.) 

AMANDA.  What  for,  if  it's  ready.  (Puts  hands 
in  dough.)  Suds  an'  seas,  what's  this? 

BOB.     (In  despair)    Burned  if  she  didn't! 

AMANDA.  (Fishes  out  ring)  I  declare — it's  a 
ring !  Must  have  come  as  a  prize  with  the  flour ! 

BOB.    That's  mine! 

SOPHIE.    Yes,  and  it  belongs  to  me. 

AMANDA.  Well,  if  it  belongs  to  both  of  you, 
looks  to  me  like  it  didn't  belong  to  neither  one.  An' 
bein'  as  I  only  work  out  for  an  accommodation,  what 
I  find,  I  hold  onto.  ('AMANDA  picks  up  bread-pan 
and  starts  to  exit  with  it.  BOB  sits  despairingly  in 
pan  of  flour  on  chair.) 

SOPHIE.  (As  she  follows  AMANDA  off  toward 
kitchen)  Oh,  Amandy — wait!  It's  the  really  truly 
truth!  (Giggles  hysterically  and  exits  into  kitchen 
after  AMANDA.^ 

BOB.  (Extricating  himsetf  with  a  moan  from 
chair)  Oh,  thunder!  (Exits  into  kitchen,  dusting 
flour  from  trousers,  avid  carrying  pan.) 

(Enter  from  study,  CLYDE  and  MRS.  BARTLETT.) 


92  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  So  you  see,  it  just  won't  do  for 
you  to  resign,  Clyde.  Look  at  the  way  the  young 
folks  are  flockin'  to  church  from  all  the  towns  in 
drivin'  distance.  It  just  seemed  as  if  old  Mr.  Carey 
dyin'  an*  willin'  you  that  five  thousand  dollars 
changed  everything.  The  crowds  began  comin'  to 
hear  you  preach,  an'  they've  been  comin'  ever  since. 

CLYDE.  The  church  is  in  fine  condition  for  my 
successor,  Mrs.  Bartlett.  I  didn't  want  to  go  until 
I  had  accomplished  at  least  that  much ;  but  down  in 
my  heart,  I  know  I've  been  a  failure  here — a  ghastly 
failure.  Teaching  the  Christian  virtues,  and  not  liv- 
ing up  to  them,  myself  when  put  to  the  test. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  know  what  you  mean — Avis. 
But  you've  done  everything  you  could  to  make  up 
for  the  way  you  treated  her.  Why,  if  she  knew 
about  that  trip  you  made  to  New  York — if  she  knew 
right  now  that  every  time  she  played  in  public,  a 
good  deal  of  the  sweetness  of  her  music  was  owin' 
to  you 

CLYDE.  Sh !  That  was  my  little  secret  attempt  at 
atonement — I  never  want  her  to  know. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  But  why,  Clyde,  why?  Even 
if  you  are  separated  for  life,  as  you  say,  there  ain't 
any  reason  why  you  shouldn't  get  to  be  friends 
again. 

CLYDE.  I  couldn't  be  just  friends  with  Avis.  And 
even  if  I  could,  she  wouldn't  wish  to  t>e  friends 
with  me:  When  I  broke  that  violin,  it  put  an  end 
to  her  love  for  me  forever.  Indifference  might  come 
to  take  the  place  of  that  love,  but  never  friendship. 
That  is  why  she  said  she  would  prefer  not  to  see  me 
when  she  came  to  the  house  to-day. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  It  seems  so  odd  that  in  three 
hours'  time  she'll  be  back  in  this  room*  again.  Bless 
her  heart! 

CLYDE.    Back  where  I  used  to  watch  her,  moving 


COSY  CORNERS  93 

about,  humming  a  happy  little  tune,  doing  everything 
to  make  home  a  bright  place  for  me 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  You  must  have  missed  her  pet- 
tin*  ways,  Clyde.  I  know  how  she  used  to  put  your 
slippers  by  your  arm-chair — run  to  the  door  forty 
times  to  see  if  you  was  comin' ^ 

CLYDE.    Don't !     (Bows  head  on  hands.) 

(SOPHIE  and  BOB  enter  from  kitchen.} 

SOPHIE.  Oh,  Ma  Bartlett,  Bob's  given  me  a  ring, 
and  you're  going  to  be  my  daughter-in-law — I  mean 
I'm  going  to  be  your  mother 

BOB.  She  means  we're  engaged  and  that  she  is 
now  my  fiasco. 

(Ente'r  AMANDA  from  kitchen.) 

SOPHIE.  There's  my  ring  to  show  I'm  taken. 
(Shows  ring.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Begins  indignantly)  Well,  I've 
just  a  good  mind  to — but  what's  the  use? 

AMANDA.  (To  BOB)  Now  remember,  young 
man,  you've  promised  me  a  clothes-wringer  for  that 
prize  flour  ring.  Excelsior.  None  of  your  cheap 
two  dollar  kind. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Clyde,  will  you  contemplate 
them  two  spring  chickens  expectm'  to  hop  into  mat- 
rimony ? 

SOPHIE.  Well,  it's  better  to  hop  into  matrimony 
when  you're  a  spring  chicken,  than  to  wait  until 
you're  an  old  hen,  and  get  left. 

AMANDA.  Them  that's  been  proposed  to,  and  re- 
fused said  proposal,  ain't  what  I  call  "left."  (Exits, 
into  kitchen,  trtumphantly.) 

CLYDE.  Well,  Bob,  Sophie,  I  hope  you'll  make 
very  sure  of  your  love  for  each  other  before  you  ) 


94  COSY  CORNERS 

decide  to  get  married.  It's  a  natural,  beautiful,  but 
very  serious  step  to  take,  and  you  have  plenty  of 
time  before  you.  There's  no  need  of  haste. 

BOB.  Oh,  we  won't  get  married  for  a  whole 
month  yet,  will  we,  Sophie? 

SOPHIE.    I  don't  care  when.     (Giggles.) 

BOB.  I've  noticed  lots  in  the  Bible,  Mr.  Hollister, 
about  wives  obeying  their  husbands,  and  I'm  going 
to  begin  bossing  Sophie  right  away.  (Sternly.) 
Sophie,  wipe  your  nose!  (With  a  giggle,  SOPHIE 
does  so.) 

SOPHIE.  If  there  isn't  anything  more  to  do  to  help 
Amandy,  I'm  going  home  to  tell  mother  about  us, 
Bob. 

BOB.  Tell  'Mandy  your  future  husband  forbids 
your  staying  any  longer. 

SOPHIE.  Oh,  Bob!  (Giggles.  They  exit  into 
kitchen.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  I  discouraged  'em  both  as 
long  as  I  could.  I  sort  of  thought  it  was  my  duty — 
their  bein'  so  young,  though  I  haven't  any  objections 
to  Sophie.  Her  giggle  is  irritatin',  but  sort  of  enter- 
tainin'  too.  But  there,  Clyde,  I  know  I'm  keepin' 
you  from  makin'  out  that  conference  report  you  was 
workin'  on.  I've  got  a  word  to  say  to  Amandy  an' 
then  I'm  goin'.  You — you  won't  let  me  try  to  bring 
you  an'  Avis  together  while  she's  here? 

CLYDE.  No.  Please,  Mrs.  Bartlett,  don't  speak  of 
that  again.  (Goes  into  study.  Bell  rings.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Calls  off  to  AMANDA,)  You 
needn't  stop  your  work,  Amandy.  I'll  'tend  the  door. 
(Opens  door.) 

DEACON.  (Steps  inside)  How  do,  Cynthia  ?  I'm 
pretty  well  out  of  breath. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Take  this  armchair.  Land 
sakes,  I  hadn't  supposed  you  was  able  to  be  out ! 


COSY  CORNERS  95 

You're  actin'  pretty  spry  for  a  man  that's  been  as 
sick  as  you  have. 

DEACON.    Anybody  home? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Clyde's  just  gone  into  his  study. 
I'll  call  him. 

DEACON.  (Shakes  his  head)  It  ain't  him  I  want 
to  see — it's  Mrs.  Hollister. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  thought  I  told  you  she  wasn't 
expected  till  late  this  afternoon.  I  don't  know  what 
you  can  be  wantin'  to  see  Mrs.  Hollister  about  any- 
how, Jonathan. 

DEACONN.  There's  lots  of  things  you  don't  know, 
Cynthia,  though  I  ain't  expectin'  you  to  believe  it. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  well,  how  natural  that 
sounds !  Just  like  the  Jonathan  Pettibone  you  was 
before  you  was  taken  sick  an'  had  to  be  operated  on. 

DEACON.  Did  you  s'pose  my  sick  spell  had  turned 
me  into  an  angel  or  somethin*  ?  Well,  it  didn't.  I'm 
the  same  man  as  I've  always  been,  only  broke  down 
a  little  in  strength. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  You're  never  goin'  to  be  as 
spiteful  an'  hard-headed  again,  as  you've  been  in  the 
last  two  years.  Doctor  Leeds  said  you  wa'nt.  I 
knew  there  was  somethin'  that  wa'nt  natural  about 
your  cantankerousness,  though  you  always  did  have 
some  ways  I  didn't  like. 

DEACON.  (Cold  manner)  Can't  everybody  be  as 
perfect  as  you  be,  Cynthy. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Just  to  think  of  your  sufferin' 
an'  sufferin'  from  that  fall  you  had,  an'  keepin'  it  all 
to  yourself.  Doctor  Leeds  said  that  what  you'd  gone 
through — an'  without  openin'  your  mouth  about  it — 
was  enough  to  make  an  angel  take  off  his  wings  an' 
holler  for  horns  an*  brimstone.  Of  course.  Edna 
wouldn't  ever  have  run  away  from  home,  if  she'd 
known  you  was  comin'  down  like  you  did. 

DEACON.    You  know  why  she  went,  don't  you  ? 


96  COSY  CORNERS 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  everybody  says  it  was  on 
account  of  your  wantin'  her  to  marry  that  Firetown 
minister,  but  of  course,  you  couldn't  have  made  her 
do  it. 

DEACON.  I  tried  to.  I  took  the  whip  to  her,  like 
she  was  a  dog  or  a  wildcat  or  somethin' — instead  of 
my  own  flesh  an'  blood !  An'  God  ain't  never  goin' 
to  forgive  me.  I've  prayed  an'  prayed,  but  I  can't 
get  a  sign  of  grace.  She  was  all  I  had,  Cynthia,  an' 
I  ain't  never  goin'  to  see  her  again.  But,  it  seems 
like  she'd  write  to  Mis'  Hollister  an'  let  her  know 
where  she  was.  I  just  want  to  git  her  address  from 
Mis'  Hollister  an'  write  to  her,  explainin'  I  wa'nt 
quite  myself  when  I  done  it — that's  all.  Don't  want 
her  thinkin'  that  way  of  me  when  I'm  dead  an'  gone. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Perhaps  Avis  does  know  where 
Edna  is.  I  hope  so,  though  don't  be  too  disappointed 
if  she  don't,  Jonathan.  She's  written  to  me  twice 
since  she's  been  gone,  an'  there  wa'nt  a  mention  of 
Edna  in  either  letter. 

DEACON.  Well,  I'll  go  on  down  to  the  post-office. 
If  Edna'd  only  write  sayin'  she  needed  some  money. 
Cynthia,  even  if  she  said  she  wa'nt  comin'  home — I 
think  I'd  be  a  well  man  after  that. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Your  soul's  got  well,  Jonathan, 
if  your  body  ain't.  An'  I  believe  the  Lord'll  set  it 
right  between  you  an'  Edna — now  you're  deservin' 
of  it.  My  land,  I've  come  to  believe  that  half  the 
time  what  folks  think  is  inside  meanness,  is  only 
inside  misery  instead!  An'  we'd  all  ought  to  learn 
to  make  allowances  for  each  other. 

DEACON.  If  you  see  Mis'  Hollister  before  I  do, 
tell  her  I'm  wantin'  to  talk  with  her,  will  you? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Of  course  I  will,  Jonathan. 
Don't  over-do,  now,  an'  give  yourself  a  set-back. 

DEACON.    I  won't.     (Exits  c.) 

MRS.    BARTLETT.      (Opens    kitchen    door,    and 


COSY  CORNERS  97 

speaks  off)  Amandy (Hesitates  in  surprise.) 

Well,  what  are  you  two  doin'  there  in  Amandy's 
kitchen?  (Enter  LIBBIE  and  JANE.J 

LIBBIE.  We  saw  Mr.  Pettibone's  buggy  hitched 
at  the  curb 

JANE.  And  we  aren't  crazy  about  talking  with 
him,  so  we  thought  we'd  stay  outside  until  he'd  gone. 

LIBBIE.  What  we  came  for  was  to  find  out  when 
dear  Mrs.  Hollister  is  expected. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Mercy  me,  not  for  hours  an' 
hours!  You'll  have  to  come  late  this  afternoon,  if 
you  want  to  see  her! 

LIBBIE.    Oh,  I'm  just  dying  to  see  her! 

JANE.  So  am  I !  I  think  it  was  just  too  romantic 
and  mysterious  the  way  she  vanished  from  Cosy 
Corners. 

LIBBIE.  Poor  dear  Mr.  Hollister!  I  never  saw 
anyone  look  as  handsome  and  tragic  as  he  does ! 

JANE.    Our  hearts  just  ache  for  him ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Now  don't  you  flappers  start  in 
pityin'  the  minister  too.  All  the  old  maids  an' 
widows  in  town  have  been  wallin'  their  eyes  at  him, 
till  they've  made  him  sick  to  his  stomach. 

JANE.  Dear  me,  I  never  dreamed  of  walling  at 
Mr.  Hollister.  Johnnie  Spriggins  would  never  speak 
to  me  again  if  I  did. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I  s'pose  you^wo  will  be  on  hand 
together  as  usual,  at  the  social  to^open  the  new  Sun- 
day School  room  next  Tuesday? 

JANE.  Well,  Johnnie  Spriggins  has  invited  me, 
but  I  told  him  my  dearest  friend,  Libbie,  might  be 
expecting  to  go  with  me,  and  that  if  she  did,  I  abso- 
lutely couldn't  slight  her  and  hurt  her  feelings — 

LIBBIE.  (Flaring  up)  Indeed !  I  thank  you  very 
much,  Jane,  but  Willie  Graham  invited  me  long  be- 
fore Johnnie  Spriggins  ever  thought  of  asking  you, 
and  I  told  him  if  I  went  with  anyone  outside  of  my 


98  COSY  CORNERS 

dearest  friend,  who  very  likely  would  not  have  an 
outside  invitation 

JANE.  I'm  just  as  popular  as  you  are — and  I'd 
rather  go  to  the  social  with  the  horridest  boy  in  town 
than  you,  so  there ! 

LIBBIE.  Why  didn't  I  tell  Willie  Graham  at  once 
that  I'd  go  with  him  ? 

JANE.  You  better  do  it  soon,  or  he  might  back 
out! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Now,  now,  what  cat-scratchin' ! 
You  two  that  have  always  been  such  friends ! 

LIBBIE.  (To  MRS.  BARTLETT  J  Our  interests 
don't  seem  to  be  the  same  any  more. 

LIBBIE.  Maybe  when  we're  married,  and  old,  and 
gray 

JANE.  (Completes  the  idea)  — we'll  understand. 
Yes,  maybe  then.  (She  sighs,  and  her  sigh  is  re- 
peated by  LIBBIE.  )  Libbie! 

LIBBIE.    Jane ! 

JANE  and  LIBBIE.  (Together)  Good-bye  for- 
ever !  (They  rush  into  each  others  arms.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (To  herself)  The  four  hundred 
an'  sixty-fourth  time! 

JANE.  I'm  going  home  by  the  way  of  Main  Street. 
Are  you? 

LIBBIE.  (Sadly)  Yes,  and  I  suppose  we  might 
as  well  walk  along  together. 

JANE.    (Resignedly)    Yes,  we  might  as  well. 

LIBBIE  and  JANE.  (Simultaneously)  Good-bye, 
Mrs.  Bartlett. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (In  tone  of  gr'eat  relief)  Good- 
bye. (Exit  LIBBIE  and  JANE  c.) 

MARIETTA.  (Steps  inside  from  kitchen  door)  Oh, 
Ma  Bartlett,  I  said  you  was  here,  an'  you  are  here, 
ain't  you  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  of  course,  child!  Aren't 
you  lookin'  right  at  me? 


COSY  CORNERS  99 

MARIETTA.    Yes,  but  are  you  sure  you're  here  ? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Another  crazy  question  like  that 
an'  I'll  turn  you  across  my  knee. 

MARIETTA.  Well,  the  strange  lady  said  to  make 
sure  an'  no  mistake  you  was  here  an'  no  one  was 
with  you,  an'  she'd  come  over.  She's  standin'  across 
the  street  now. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    'Twa'nt  Mrs.  Hollister,  was  it? 

MARIETTA.  No,  'cause  she  asked  if  Mis'  Hollister 
had  got  here  when  she  rang  our  doorbell. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  wave  her  to  come  on  over. 
Who  is  she,  I  wonder? 

MARIETTA.    (At  front  door,  waves)   She's  comin'. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    Anybody  with  her? 

MARIETTA.  Nobody  but  a  handbag.  (She  opens 
the  door  wide,  admitting  EDNA,  so  heavily  veiled  as 
to  be  unrecognizable.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Come  right  in,  Miss.  I'm  Mrs. 
Bartlett,  an'  if  you've  got  any  word  for  me  from 

Mrs.  Hollister fEoNA  looks  at  MARIETTA, 

draws  a  card  from  handbag  and  gives  it  to  MRS. 
BARTLETT,  who,  after  reading  it,  gives  exclamation 
of  surprise.)  Run  along,  Marietta,  I've  somethin' 
to  say  to  this  lady  alone. 

MARIETTA.    What  are  you  goin'  to  say? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.    You  run  along. 

MARIETTA.    Can't  I  wait  in  the  kitchen? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  No,  an'  you'll  get  paddled  with 
my  slipper  when  I  get  home  if  you  ask  another  ques- 
tion. 

MARIETTA.  People  oughtn't  to  take  slippers  to  an 
orphan.  People  ought  to  tell  orphans  they  could  ask 
Sally  Ann  for  a  large  piece  of  bread  an'  butter  an' 
blackberry  jam  if  they  ran  along. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Well,  well  ask  her,  if  nothin' 
else  will  do  you ! 


ioo  COSY  CORNERS 

MARIETTA.  Oh,  goody,  blackberry  jam!  (Runs 
out  at  c.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  Edna  Pettibone,  of  all  the 
surprisin'  things!  I'm  mighty  glad  to  see  you, 
child.  Of  course  I'll  manage  to  show  you  Mrs. 
Hollister's  own  private  room — just  as  she's  asked  me 
to. 

EDNA.  Not  a  soul  has  guessed  who  I  am.  I  didn't 
want  to  come  to  Cosy  Corners  at  all — but  she  made 
me.  She  stopped  for  something  at  the  photographer's 
on  the  way  up. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Come  on  upstairs.  To  think 
you've  been  travelin'  all  this  time  with  Avis  an'  no- 
body hearin'  a  word  of  it !  (They  exit  L .) 

(Bell  rings.    CLYDE  enters  from  study.    Bell  rings 
again.) 

CLYDE.  Amandy!  Amandy!  (There  is  no  an- 
swer, and  he  goes  to  door  himself.  Enter  Avis,  fol- 
lowed by  BOB,  carrying  a  satchel.)  Avis ! 

BOB.  Gee,  I  was  glad  I  happened  to  see  Mrs. 
Hollister  trotting  along  with  her  satchel.  Won't 
Sophie  be  surprised  when  I  tell  her  ? 

Avis.  Give  Sophie  my  love.  And  I  thank  you, 
Bob,  so  much. 

BOB.  Don't  mention  it.  You're  looking  fine,  Mrs. 
Hollister.  I  hope  you've  come  to  stay.  (Exits  c.) 

Avis.  There's  been  some  mistake,  I'm  afraid.  I 
wrote  Mrs.  Bartlett  I  was  coming  on  an  earlier  train. 
Perhaps  my  letter  failed  to  reach  her. 

CLYDE.  I'm  sure  it  did.  She  told  me  you  were 
not  to  arrive  till  late  this  afternoon.  I  knew  you 
did  not  wish  to  see  me,  and  had  made  my  plans  to  be 
away.  I'm  sorry. 

Avis.  After  all,  it  doesn't  matter.  If  you  don't 
mind  being  inconvenienced  for  a  very  short  while, 


COSY  CORNERS  101 

I'll  soon  be  gone.  But,  if  you  would  prefer  me  to 
postpone  my  errand — if  I  am  interfering  with 
appointments  or  anything — 

CLYDE.  You  are  not,  and  once  my  study  door 
closes  on  me,  you'll  not  be  troubled  with  the  sight 
of  me  again.  (He  staggers  and  catches  at  the  back 
of  a  chair.) 

Avis.  (Politely.,  as  a  stranger  might  speak)  You 
— you're  not  ill  or  anything,  are  you  ? 

CLYDE.  No,  only  an  extra  heart-beat  at  seeing 
you  unexpectedly.  It  sort  of  brought  back  old 
times. 

Avis.  (Coldly)  If  it  is  just  the  same  to  you,  I 
think  I'd  rather  not  speak  of  old  times.  I'm  really 
not  interested  in  the  subject. 

CLYDE.  Not  interested!  And  the  very  sight  of 
you  makes  me  dizzy  with  rapture  and  pain !  You 
bring  moonlit  memories  and  the  perfume  of  roses 
with  you.  Avis,  Avis,  has  that  one  night,  that  one 
insane  jealous  outbreak — changed  me  entirely  in 
your  sight? 

Avis.  (Hand  to  heart)  There's  only  silence  in 
my  heart  to  answer  you  now.  Those  old  chords  of 
pain  are  stifled.  I  want  them  never  to  vibrate  again. 

CLYDE.  Avis,  I  was  cruel,  unmanly,  unjust — but 
if  you'll  only  give  me  one  hope — a  single  ray — I'll 
fight  to  win  back  the  love  I  have  lost  as  a  soldier 
fights  for  his  flag. 

Avis.  Please,  please,  don't,  or  I  can  not  stay  here 
another  moment. 

CLYDE.  Forgive  me.  (Goes  slowly  into  study  and 
closes  door.  Avis  stands  rigidly  as  he  left  her.  Then 
takes  off  hat  and  coat  and  throws  them  on  chair. 
Undoes  satchel.  Finds  some  music  on  table  and  puts 
it  into  satchel.  Finds  a  small  clock  and  puts  it  in. 
AMANDA  begins  to  sing  a  hymn  tune  in  a  harsh  voice 


102  COSY  CORNERS 

and  Avis,  immediately,  recollecting  her  presence  for 
first  time,  goes  into  kitchen.) 

AMANDA.  (Heard  in  kitchen)  Well,  for  the  land 
sakes,  I  never — 

(Door  closes,  shutting  out  her  voice.  Enter  MRS. 
BARTLETT  from  L.  She  sees  Avis's  hat  and 
coat.  Listens  and  hears  sound  of  her  voice  in 
kitchen.  As  she  starts  for  kitchen,  DEACON 
gives  a  sharp  rap  at  door  c.  and  enters.) 

DEACON.  Cynthia — Mis'  Hollister's  here,  ain't 
she?  Bob  told  me  she  was.  Did  you  tell  her  I 
wanted  to  see  her? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Not  yet.  You  sit  down  there, 
Jonathan,  an'  give  me  a  chance  to  go  out  an'  say  how 
do  to  her  myself.  But  I've  got  this  much  to  say — 
you  needn't  worry  about  Edna.  Mrs.  Hollister  has 
been  lookin'  after  her  all  the  time  she's  been  away. 

DEACON.  Thank  the  Lord — thank  the  Lord !  (In 
old  suspicious  manner.)  It's  all  right  to  say  she's 
been  lookin'  after  her,  but  how  do  you  know  she  has? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (With  caution)  I  was  handed 
a  letter  from  Mrs.  Hollister  since  I  saw  you;  an' 
you've  got  occasion  to  be  thankful,  Jonathan  Petti- 
bone.  Edna  would  have  left  Cosy  Corners  trustin' 
the  promise  of  Morris  Granby  to  get  her  work  in 
New  York,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her  findin'  out 
through  Avis  he  wasn't  meanin'  to  play  fair.  That's 
why,  when  she  did  leave  home,  she  went  straight  to 
where  Avis  was.  I've  been  learnin'  all  about  it. 
(Enter  Avis  from  kitchen.)  Avis!  There  you  are 
at  last !  I  never  was  so  tickled  to  see  anybody  in  my 
life !  (Puts  her  arms  about  Avis.) 

Avis.  (With  emotion)  Dear  Mrs.  Bartlett,  to 
see  your  kind  face  again  almost  makes  me  cry! 
(Looks  at  DEACON,  and  starts  back  horrified  at  his 


COSY  CORNERS  103 

changed  appearance.)  Why,  this  isn't  Deacon  Petti- 
bone? 

DEACON.  Yes,  it  is,  what's  left  of  me.  I — I 
wanted  a  few  words  with  you  if  you've  got  time  to 
spare,  Mis'  Holilster. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Significantly)  I'm  goin'  into 
the  study,  Avis,  but  your  maid  is  in  the  next  room 
there  in  case  you  want  her  for  anythin' !  (Goes  into 
study.) 

Avis.    Well,  Deacon  Pettibone? 

DEACON.  Mis'  Hollister,  I'm  a  stubborn  old  man 
— I  belong  to  a  perverse  an'  stiff-necked  generation 
— it  ain't  easy  for  me  to  eat  humble  pie,  but — tell 
me  where  Edna  is. 

Avis.  (Gently)  But  you  and  Edna  did  not  get 
along  very  well  together  before  she  left  home.  Why 
should  you  want  to  know  where  she  is? 

DEACON.  Because  I'm  different  from  what  I  was. 
It  was  Satan  himself  that  got  hold  of  me  an'  made 
me  take  the  whip  to  her.  I  ain't  sorry  now  that  she 
didn't  agree  to  marry  Parson  Umpstead — he  wa'nt 
suitable  for  her — I  must  have  been  sort  of  crazy  to 
think  he  was.  I  ain't  expectin'  Edna  to  come  home 
— but  I  want  her  to  know  I  ain't  the  man  any  more 
that  took  a  whip  to  her. 

Avis.  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  I 
hope  you  are  different,  Deacon  Pettibone,  and  that 
you're  going  to  take  it  right  when  I  tell  you  I  have 
brought  Charlie  into  Edna's  life  again — because  I 
knew  they  loved  each  other — and  that  she's  going  to 
marry  him. 

DEACON.    Goin'  4:o  marry  Charlie? 

Avis.    Yes. 

DEACON^  I  ain't  against  it.  He's  a  good  boy — if 
he  is  a  leetle  too  ffond  of  dancin'.  An'  she's  goin' 
to  marry  him !  That  means,  I  s'pose,  she  won't  have 
no  occasion,  to  come  home,  an'  I'll  never  see  her 


104  COSY  CORNERS 

again.  (Takes  handkerchief  and  wipes  his  eyes. 
Avis  motions  to  L.,  where  a  door  has  gently  opened. 
EDNA  comes  out  and  Avis  exits  into  same  room, 
leaving  EDNA  alone  with  the  DEACON.^ 

EDNA.    (Tremulously)    Poor  old  Daddy ! 

DEACON.  (Looks  up)  Edna — Tain'tyou!  (They 
embrace.)  My  little  girl !  Listen,  Edna,  if  you  an' 
Charlie  want  to  come  back  to  Cosy  Corners — I'll 
turn  over  my  business  to  him.  He  ain't  got  my 
brains,  but  I'll  risk  it.  An'  I'll  build  you  your  own 
house  to  live  in — big  a  one  as  you  want.  Fancy 
trimmin's  if  you  say  so 

EDNA.  Father,  you  look  so  thin  and  starved! 
That's  all  I  can  think  of  now. 

DEACON.  I've  missed  them  corn  fritters  you  used 
to  make. 

EDNA.  We'll  go  right  over  to  the  house  and  I'll 
bake  you  some.  We'll  talk  about  Charlie  and  every- 
thing while  I'm  there. 

DEACON.  (As  she  starts  to  help  him)  No  need  to 
help  me.  I'm  feelin'  better  every  minute.  (They 
exit  c.,  together.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Enters  from  study)  Avis, 
Avis,  where  are  you  ? 

Avis.  (Enters  from  L.  with  arm  full  of  laces, 
ribbons,  etc.,  and  most  prominent  of  all,  a  beautiful 
negligee)  I  didn't  know  I'd  find  so  many  things  to 
go  in  my  satchel.  I'll  have  barely  room  for  every- 
thing. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  (Looks  at  Avis,  sadly)  Dear 
me,  dear  me !  It's  all  I  can  do  to  keep  from  settin' 
you  down  hard  in  that  chair,  an'  pilin'  on  you  to 
keep  you  there.  fAvis  holds  up  negligee  and  gives 
it  a  slight  shake  to  remove  wrinkles.)  H'm !  That 
was  one  of  your  weddin'  breakfast  wrappers  that 
Clyde  liked  particular,  wasn't  it  ?  (As  Avis,  without 
replying,  save  by  a  shrug,  starts  to  fold  it  away.) 


COSY  CORNERS  105 

Now,  now,  do  let  that  wait  an'  sit  down  an'  talk 
with  me  a  minute.  ( Avis  takes  a  chair.) 

Avis.    I  can't  talk  very  long. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Those  newspaper  notices  you 
sent  me  in  your  last  letter  were  grand  f 

Avis.  Yes,  weren't  they  wonderful !  And  vaude- 
ville was  an  untried  field  for  me,  too ! 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  One  paper  just  raves  about  your 
fine  violin,  I  notice.  (With  pretended  innocence.) 
Was  it  the  one  you  used  to  play  on  in  Boston? 

Avis.  (Slowly)  No,  I  never  told  you,  but  that 
one  was  broken.  Some  rich  music-lover,  I  don't 
know  who — sent  me  my  new  one,  just  at  a  time  when 
I  was  needing  it  most.  It  is  mellow  in  tone — beau- 
tiful. As  soon  as  I  began  to  play  on  it,  it  was 
almost  as  if  the  spirit  of  my  old  violin-  had  come  back 
to  me. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Then  I  s'pose  mebbe  that  was 
the  one  Clyde  heard  you  play  on  in  Worcester,  that 
week  you  was  there. 

Avis.    Clyde  heard  me? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  He  went  on  purpose.  That's 
why  he  feels  so  different  about  your  music  from 
what  "he  did. 

Avis.    Different?    How — different? 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Why,  he  says  he  discovered, 
hearin'  you  play  before  a  big  crowd  of  people,  that 
his  gift  of  eloquence  couldn't  ever  do  half  towards 
inspirin'  folks  to  lead  good  an'  hopeful  lives  that 
your  violin-playin'  could.  He  said  he'd  ought  to 
have  realized  such  an  artist  belonged  to  the  world  as 
well  as  to  him,  an'  not  acted  so  small  about  it. 

Avis.  Why,  I  can  hardly  believe  he  could  change 
like  that!  But — what's  the  use  of  talking  of  it  now? 
I'd  rather  talk  of  -my  new  violin. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  I.  ain't  any  objection  to  that. 
(Shows  slip  in  her  hand.)  I  picked  this  up  on 


io6  COSY  CORNERS 

Clyde's  desk  just  now  when  he  wa'nt  lookin'.  I 
promised  I  wouldn't  say  nothin',  but  I  didn't  promise 
not  to  show  anythin'  I  found.  Maybe  this  would 
interest  you,  Avis.  (Passes  slip  of  paper  to  Avis.,) 

Avis.  (Amazed)  "Violin — $3,400.  Received 
payment."  Mrs.  Bartlett,  then  it  was  Clyde,  Clyde 
himself  that 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Yes,  that  bought  it  and  didn't 
want  you  ever  to  know.  Don't  that  show  that  he 
loves  you — an'  is  deservin'  of  a  little  mercy,  no 
matter  what  he  did  ? 

Avis.  Clyde (Looks  at  slip  again.  Chokes. 

Puts  handkerchief  to  eyes.  Rises.)  Mrs.  Bartlett, 
I  want  you  to  go  back  in  the  study,  and  when  you 
hear  a  door  close — tell  Clyde — oh,  tell  him  anything 
to  bring  him  here !  Do  you  understand  ?  Of  course, 
he  must  think  I  have  gone,  or  he'll  never  consent  to 
come. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Sometimes  a  white  lie  is  ex- 
cusable. (Exits  into  study.) 

Avis.  (Gives  a  happy  little  sigh,  takes  corsage 
bouquet  from  dress  and  arranges  it  in  vase  on  table. 
Pulls  armchair  close  to  table,  gets  slippers  and 
places  them  by  armchair.  Slips  negligee  over  her 
dress)  There ! 

AMANDA.  (Enters  from  kitchen)  You  said  you 
wa'nt  meanin'  to  stay,  Mis'  Hollister,  didn't  you  ? 

Avis.     (Pleasantly)    Yes,  that's  what  I  said. 

AMANDA.  Well,  whether  you've  changed  your 
mind  or  not,  I've  got  some  rights,  seem'  as  I  only 
work  out  for  an  accommodation.  (Picks  up  slippers 
and  throws  them  into  corner.)  As  for  them  flowers 
— I  ain't  never  been  so  disgusted  with  anything 
unless  'twas  Deacon  Pettibone,  the  night  I  refused 
to  take  his  offer.  Never  liked  flowers  in  the  house 
anyway.  (Pulls  flowers  from  vase.) 


COSY  CORNERS  107 

Avis.  (With  authority)  Put  those  flowers  back- 
in  that  vase. 

AMANDA.     (Amazed)     What  ? 

Avis.  Put  them  back.  You  may  take  your  choice 
— work  out  for  an  accommodation  somewhere  else — 
or  stay  here  and  do  as  I  tell  you.  Mistakes  or  no 
mistakes,  I  mean  to  run  the  house  to  suit  myself 
and  my  husband. 

AMANDA.  (Complete  cowed.  Puts  flowers  back 
and  returns  slippers  to  place)  Yes,  ma'am.  I'll 
wait  for  further  orders  in  the  kitchen.  (Exits  into 
kitchen.) 

(Avis  goes  off  L.,  closing  door  with  loud  bang.  In 
te  moment,  MRS.  BARTLETT  enters  from  study, 
CLYDE  close  behind.) 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Avis  ain't  here,  I  tell  you.  You 
can  look  for  yourself. 

CLYDE.  You  said  someone  wanted  to  see  me. 
There's  no  one  about. 

MRS.  BARTLETT.  Yes,  there  is.  (Goes  to  door  c. 
and  exits,  looking  back  mischievously.  CLYDE  fol- 
lows to  door  and  opens  it.) 

CLYDE.  But,  Mrs.  Bartlett (Avis  slips  in 

from  L.  afid  he  turns  and  sees  her.)  You  ? 

Avis.    No,  a  girl  from  China. 

CLYDE.  (Stupidly)  You  haven't  gone?  (She 
shakes  her  head  childishly.)  You've  missed  your 
train  ? 

Avis.    No.  but  I'm  going  to ! 

CLYDE.  (Rapturously)  Avis !  Avis !  (She  goes 
into  his  arms.) 

CURTAIN 


MRS.   WIGGS   OF   THE 
CABBAGE   PATCH 

Dramatization  in  3  acts,  by  Anne  Crawford  Flexner  from 
the  novel  by  Alice  Hegan  Eice.  15  males,  11  females. 

1  interior,  1  exterior.     Costumes  modern  and  rustic.     Plays 
a  full  evening. 

A  capital  dramatization  of  the  ever-beloved  Mrs.  Wiggs  and 
her  friends,  people  who  have  entered  the  hearts  and  minds  of  a 
nation.  Mrs.  Schultz  and  Lovey  Mary,  the  pessimistic  Miss  Hazy 
and  the  others  need  no  new  introduction.  Here  is  'characteriza- 
tion, humor,  pathos,  and  what  is  best  and  most  appealing  in 
modern  American  life.  The  amateur  acting  rights  are  reserved 
for  the  present  in  all  cities  and  towns  where  there  are  stock 
companies.  Royalty  will  be  quoted  on  application  for  those  cities 
and  towns  where  it  may  be  presented  by  amateurs. 

Price.  75  Cents. 

THE  FOUR-FLUSHER 

Comedy  in  3  acts.    By  Caesar  Dunn.     8  males,  5  females. 

2  interiors.    Modern  costumes.    Plays  2%  hours. 

A  comedy  of  hustling  American  youth,  "The  Four-Flusher'f  is 
one  of  those  clean  and  bright  plays  which  reveal  the  most  appeal- 
ing characteristics  of  our  native  types.  Here  is  an  amusing  story 
of  a  young  shoe  clerk  who  through  cleverness,  personality,  and 
plenty  of  wholesome  faith  in  himself,  becomes  a  millionaire.  The 
play  is  best  described  as  "breezy."  It  is  full  of  human  touches, 
and  develops  a  most  interesting  story.  It  may  be  whole-heartedly 
recommended  to  high  schools.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.) 

Price,  75  Cents. 

PALS  FIRST 

Comedy  in  a  prologue  and  3  acts.  By  Lee  Wilson  Dodd. 
8  males,  3  females.  1  interior,  1  exterior.  Modern  cos- 
tumes. Plays  2%  hours. 

Based  on  the  successful  novel  of  the  same  name  by  F.  P. 
Elliott,  "Pals  First"  is  a  decidedly  picturesque  mystery  play. 
Danny  and  the  Dominie,  a  pair  of  tramps,  enter  a  mansion  and 
persuade  the  servants  and  friends  that  they  belong  there.  They 
are  not  altogether  wrong,  though  it  requires  the  intervention  of 
a  judge,  two  detectives,  a  villain  and  an  attractive  girl  to  un- 
tangle the  complications.  A  most  ingenious  play,  well  adapted 
to  performance  by  high  schools  and  colleges.  (Royalty,  twenty- 
five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Request 


NOTHING    BUT    THE    TRUTH 

Comedy  in  3  acts.  By  James  Montgomery.  5  males, 
6  females.  Modern  costumes.  2  interiors.  Plays  2\^  hours. 

Is  it  possible  to  tell  the  absolute  truth — even  for  twenty-four 
hours?  It  is — at  least  Bob  Bennett,  the  hero  of  "Nothing  but 
the  Truth,"  accomplished  the  feat.  The  bet  he  made  with  his 
partners,  his  friends,  and  his  fiancee — these  are  the  incidents  in 
William  Collier's  tremendous  comedy  hit.  "Nothing  but  the 
Truth"  can  be  whole-heartedly  recommended  as  one  of  the  most 
sprightly,  amusing  and  popular  comedies  of  which  this  country 
can  boast.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SEVENTEEN 

A  comedy  of  youth,  in  4  acts.  By  Booth  Tarkington. 
8  males,  6  females.  1  exterior,  2  interior  scenes.  Costumes, 
modern.  Plays  2^  hours. 

It  is  the  tragedy  of  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  that  he  has  ceased 
to  be  sixteen  and  is  not  yet  eighteen.  Baby,  child,  boy,  youth 
and  grown-up  are  definite  phenomena.  The  world  knows  them  and 
has  learned  to  put  up  with  them.  Seventeen  is  not  an  age,  it  is  a 
disease.  In  its  turbulent  bosom  the  leavings  of  a  boy  are  at  war 
with  the  beginnings  of  a  man. 

In  his  heart,  William  Sylvanus  Baxter  knows  all  the  tortures 
and  delights  of  love ;  he  is  capable  of  any  of  the  heroisms  of  his 
heroic  sex.  But  he  is  still  sent  on  the  most  humiliating  errands 
by  his  mother,  and  depends  upon  his  father  for  the  last  nickel 
of  spending  money. 

Silly  Bill  fell  in  love  with  Lolo,  the  Baby-Talk  Lady,  a  vapid 
if  amiable  little  flirt.  To  woo  her  in  a  manner  worthy  of  himself 
(and  incidentally  of  her)  he  stole  his  father's  evening  clothes. 
When  his  wooings  became  a  nuisance  to  the  neighborhood,  his 
mother  stole  the  clothes  back,  and  had  them  altered  to  fit  the 
middle-aged  form  of  her  husband,  thereby  keeping  William  at 
home  in  the  evening. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  Baby-Talk  Lady's  good-bye  dance,  not 
to  be  present  was  unendurable.  How  William  Sylvanus  again 
got  the  dress  suit,  and  how  as  he  was  wearing  it  at  the  party  the 
negro  servant,  Genesis,  disclosed  the  fact  that  the  proud  garment 
was  in  reality  his  father's,  are  some  of  the  elements  in  this 
charming  comedy  of  youth. 

"Seventeen"  is  a  story  of  youth,  love  and  summer  time.  It  is 
a  work  of  exquisite  human  sympathy  and  delicious  humor.  Pro- 
duced by  Stuart  Walker  at  the  Booth  Theatre,  New  York,  it  en- 
joyed a  run  of  four  years  in  New  York  and  on  the  road.  Strongly 
recommended  for  High  School  production.  (Royalty,  twenty-five 
dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Bequest 


COME  OUT  OF  THE  KITCHEN 

A  charming  comedy  in  3  acts.  Adapted  by  A.  E.  Thomas 
from  the  story  of  the  same  name  by  Alice  Duer  Miller. 
6  males,  5  females.  3  interior  scenes.  Costumes^  modern. 
Plays  2Vz  hours. 

The  story  of  "Come  Out  of  the  Kitchen"  is  written  around  a 
Virginia  family  of  the  old  aristocracy,  by  the  name  of  Dainger- 
field,  who,  finding  themselves  temporarily  embarrassed,  decide  to 
rent  their  magnificent  home  to  a  rich  Yankee.  One  of  the  con- 
ditions of  the  lease  by  the  well-to-do  New  Englander  stipulates 
that  a  competent  staff  of  white  servants  should  be  engaged  for 
his  sojourn  at  the  stately  home.  This  servant  question  presents 
practically  insurmountable  difficulties,  and  one  of  the  daughters 
of  the  family  conceives  the  mad-cap  idea  that  she,  her  sister  and 
their  two  brothers  shall  act  as  the  domestic  staff  for  the  wealthy 
Yankee.  Olivia  Daingerfield,  who  is  the  ringleader  in  the  merry 
scheme,  adopts  the  cognomen  of  Jane  Allen,  and  elects  to  preside 
over  the  destinies  of  the  kitchen.  Her  sister,  Elizabeth,  is  ap- 
pointed housemaid.  Her  elder  brother,  Paul,  is  the  butler,  and 
Charley,  the  youngest  of  the  group,  is  appointed  to  the  position  ol 
lootboy.  When  Burton  Crane  arrives  from  the  North,  accom- 
panied by  Mrs.  Faulkner,  her  daughter,  and  Crane's  attorney. 
Tucker,  they  find  the  staff  of  servants  to  possess  so  many  methods 
of  behavior  out  of  the  ordinary  that  amusing  complications  begin 
to  arise  immediately.  Olivia's  charm  and  beauty  impress  Crana 
above  everything  else,  and  the  merry  story  continues  through  s 
maze  of  delightful  incidents  until  the  real  identity  of  the  heroine) 
is  finally  disclosed.  But  not  until  Crane  has  professed  his  love 
for  his  charming  cook,  and  the  play  ends  with  the  brightest 
prospects  of  happiness  for  these  two  young  people.  "Come  Out 
of  the  Kitchen,"  with  Ruth  Chatterton  in  the  leading  role,  made 
a  notable  success  on  its  production  by  Henry  Miller  at  the  Cohan 
Theatre,  New  York.  It  was  also  a  great  success  at  the  Strand 
Theatre,  London.  A  most  ingenious  and  entertaining  comedy, 
and  we  strongly  recommend  it  for  amateur  production.  (Royalty, 
twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

GOING   SOME 

Play  in  4  acts.  By  Paul  Armstrong  and  Rex  Beach. 
12  males,  4  females.  2  exteriors,  1  interior.  Costumes, 
modern  and  cowboy.  Plays  a  full  evening. 

Described  by  the  authors  as  the  "chronicle  of  a  certain  lot  of 
college  men  and  girls,  with  a  tragic  strain  of  phonograph  and 
cowboys."  A  rollicking  good  story,  full  of  action,  atmosphere, 
comedy  and  drama,  redolent  of  the  adventurous  spirit  of  youth. 
(Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Bequest 


POLLYANNA 

"The  glad  play,"  in  3  acts.  By  Catherine  CMsholm 
dusting.  Based  on  the  novel  by  Eleanor  H.  Porter.  5 
males,  6  females.  2  interiors.  Costumes,  modern.  Plays 
2*4  hours. 

The  story  has  to  do  with  the  experiences  of  an  orphan  girl 
•who  is  thrust,  unwelcome,  into  the  home  of  a  maiden  aunt.  In 
spite  of  the  tribulations  that  beset  her  life  she  manages  to  find 
something  to  be  glad  about,  and  brings  light  into  sunless  lives. 
Finally,  Pollyanna  straightens  out  the  love  affairs  of  her  elders, 
and  last,  but  not  least,  finds  happiness  for  herself  in  the  heart 
of  Jimmy.  "Pollyanna"  is  a  glad  play  and  one  which  is  bound 
to  give  one  a  better  appreciation  of  people  and  the  world.  It 
reflects  the  humor,  tenderness  and  humanity  that  gave  the  story 
such  wonderful  popularity  among  young  and  old. 

Produced  at  the  Hudson  Theatre,  New  York,  and  for  two  sea- 
sons on  tour,  by  George  0.  Tyler,  with  Helen  Hayes  in  the  part 
of  "Pollyanna."  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 


THE  CHARM  SCHOOL 

A  comedy  in  3  acts.  By  Alice  Duer  Miller  and  Robert 
Milton.  6  males,  10  females  (may  be  played  by  5  males 
and  8  females).  Any  number  of  school  girls  may  be  used 
in  the  ensembles.  Scenes,  2  interiors.  Modern  costumes. 
Plays  2%  hours. 

The  story  of  "The  Charm  School"  is  familiar  to  Mrs.  Miller's 
readers.  It  relates  the  adventures  of  a  handsome  young  auto- 
mobile salesman,  scarcely  out  of  his  'teens,  who,  upon  inheriting 
a  girls'  boarding-school  from  a  maiden  aunt,  insists  on  running  it 
himself,  according  to  his  own  ideas,  chief  of  which  is,  by  the 
way,  that  the  dominant  feature  in  the  education  of  the  young 
girls  of  to-day  should  be  CHARM.  The  situations  that  arise  are) 
teeming  with  humor — clean,  wholesome  humor.  In  the  end  the 
young  man  gives  up  the  school,  and  promises  to  wait  until  the 
most  precocious  of  his  pupils  reaches  a  marriageable  age.  The 
play  has  the  freshness  of  youth,  the  inspiration  of  an  extravagant 
but  novel  idea,  the  charm  of  originality,  and  the  promise  of  whole- 
some, sanely  amusing,  pleasant  entertainment.  We  strongly  rec- 
ommend it  for  high  school  production.  It  was  first  produced  at 
the  Bijou  Theatre,  New  York,  then  toured  the  country.  Two 
companies  are  now  playing  it  in  England.  (Royalty,  twenty-five 
dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  PBENCH,  25  West  45tli  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Bequest 


DADDY  LONG-LEGS 

A  charming  comedy  in  4  acts.  By  Jean  Webster.  The 
full  east  calls  for  6  males,  7  females  and  6  orphans,  but 
the  play,  by  the  easy  doubling  of  some  of  the  characters, 
may  be  played  by  4  males,  4  females  and  3  orphans. 
The  orphans  appear  only  in  the  first  act  and  may  be  played 
by  small  girls  of  any  age.  Four  easy  interior  scenes. 
Costumes  modern.  Plays  2*4  hours. 

Many  readers  of  current  fiction  will  recall  Jean  Webster's 
"Daddy  Long-Legs."  Miss  Webster  dramatized  her  story  and  it 
•was  presented  at  the  Gaiety  Theatre  in  New  York,  under  Henry- 
Miller's  direction,  with  Ruth  Chatterton  in  the  principal  role. 
"Daddy  Long-Legs"  tells  the  story  of  Judy,  a  pretty  little 
drudge  in  a  bleak  New  England  orphanage.  One  day,  a  visiting; 
trustee  becomes  interested  in  Judy  and  decides  to  give  her  a 
chance.  She  does  not  know  the  name  of  her  benefactor,  but 
simply  calls  him  Daddy  Long-Legs,  and  writes  him  letters  brim- 
ming over  with  fun  and  affection.  From  the  Foundling's  Home 
she  goes  to  a  fashionable  college  for  girls  and  there  develops  the 
romance  that  constitutes  much  of  the  play's  charm.  The  New 
York  Times  reviewer,  on  the  morning  after  the  Broadway  pro- 
duction, wrote  the  following:  "If  you  will  take  your  pencil  and 
•write  down,  one  below  the  other,  the  words  delightful,  charming, 
sweet,  beautiful  and  entertaining,  and  then  draw  a  line  and  add 
them  up,  the  answer  will  be  'Daddy  Long-Legs.'  To  that  result 
you  might  even  add  brilliant,  pathetic  and  humorous,  but  the 
answer  even  then  would  be  just  what  it  was  before — the  play 
which  Miss  Jean  Webster  has  made  from  her  book,  'Daddy  Long- 
Legs,'  and  which  was  presented  at  the  Gaiety  last  night.  To 
attempt  to  describe  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  'Daddy  Long- 
Legs'  would  be  like  attempting  to  describe  the  first  breath  of 
Spring  after  an  exceedingly  tiresome  and  hard  Winter."  "Daddy 
Long-Legs"  enjoyed  a  two-years'  run  in  New  York,  and  was  then, 
toured  for  over  three  years.  It  is  now  published  in  play  form  for 
the  first  time.  (Royalty,  twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents, 

THE  FAMOUS   MRS.   FAIR 

A  comedy  in  4  acts.  By  James  Forbes.  3  males,  10 
females.  2  interiors.  Modern,  costumes.  Plays  a  full 
evening. 

An  absorbing  play  of  modern  American  family  life.  "The 
Famous  Mrs.  Fair"  is  concerned  with  a  strenuous  lady  who 
returns  from  overseas  to  lecture,  and  consequently  neglects  her 
daughter,  who  is  just  saved  in  time  from  disaster.  Acted  with 
great  success  by  Blanche  Bates  and  Henry  Miller.  (Royalty, 
twenty-five  dollars.)  Price,  75  Cents. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street,  New  York  City 
New  and  Explicit  Descriptive  Catalogue  Mailed  Free  on  Bequest 


A     000126535 


Daddy  Long-Legs 


A  charming  comedy  la  4  act.,  by  Jean  Webster.  6  male* 
9  females?*?*  6  orphan.,,  but  by  easy  doubling  of  some  char- 
Lters  may  be  played  by  4  male.,  4  females  and  8  orphan*. 
The™ rp^L  appear  onl/ in  the  first  act  and  may  be  played 
by  small  girls.  4  easy  interiors.  Costumes  modem.  Plays  8Vi 

DThe  New  York  Times  wrote  the  following: 
"If  you  will  take  your  pencil  and  write  down,  one  below 
the  other,  the  words  delightful,  charming:,  sweet,  beautiful  and 
entertaining,  and  then  draw  a  line  and  add  them  up.  the  answei 
wll I  be  'Daddy  Long-Legs'.  To  that  result  you  mlBht  even  add 
brilliant,  pathetic  and  humorous,  but  the  answer  even  the. 
would  be  Just  what  it  was  before— the  play  which  Mi«  JCM. 
Webater  has  made  from  her  book.  'Daddy  Long-Legs,  lo  at- 
tempt to  describe  the  simplicity  and  beauty  of  'Paddy  Long- 
Legs'  would  be  like  attempting  to  describe  the  flrnt  breath  o1 
Spring  after  an  exceedingly  tiresome  and  hard  Wirt". 

Knjoyed  a  two-years'  run  in  New  York  and  was  then  toureO 
»«-  over  three  years.     Royalty.  $25.00.     Price,  75  c,»uts. 


To  the  Ladies 


A    hilarious   comedy  In    3   acts,    by    George    S.    Kaufman    and 
Marc    Connelly.      11    males,    3    females.      3   Interiors,      tostnmos. 

""T"**'  authors  of  "DuTcy"  have  dlTulged  a  secret  known  to 
every  woman—  and  to  some  men,  though  the  men  don  t  admit  it. 
The  central  figures  are  young  Leonard  Beebe  and  niB  win 
Elsie,  a  little  girl  from  Mobile.  Leonard  Is  the  average  J°unir 
American  clerk,  the  kind  who  read  all  the  "Success  Dories  M 
the  masazines  and  believe  them.  Elsie  has  determined  to  |  ™fc» 
him  something  more.  She  has  her  hands  talMm  l«w  ^ 
make  an  after  dinner  speech  for  hhn—  but  she  does  It  and 


lenHa>-  played    Elsie    and    Otto    Kruger 
Leonard  In   New  York,   where  It   ran   a  whole  season. 
elean    and   wholesome   play,   delicious^   funny  •»«   *1*«J'*I1"r  ,? 
diverting   evening's   entertainment.     Boyalty,   $25.00.     Price.    7i 
cents. 

Three  Live  Ghosts 

Comedy  in  3  a*ts  by  Frederick  Isham  and  X**™*™**!    * 
males,  4   females    (2   policemen).     1  Interior  throughout.     Co»- 

"'SftnuS  OhoTs"^  bZT'fun  of  fun  and  humor  and  ta 
rare  to  keep  audiences  In  gales  of  laughter.  The.New,7<*£ 
critics  described  It  as  the  most  Ingenious  and  «"?«?In*i™"Mf1J 
of  the  season,  genuinely  funny.  It  played  a  full  «»«onW 
New  York,  then  toured  the  big  cities.  A  lively  comedy  of  merit. 
Royalty,  $25.00.  Price,  75  cents. 

BAMUIEL  FRENCH,  25  West  45th  Street.  Kew  York  City 
and   KxpUclt  Descriptive   Catalogue   Mailed 


FRENCH'S 
Standard  Library  Edition 

Include*  Plays  by 


Clyde  Fitch 

William  Gillette 

Augustus  Thomas 

George  Broadhurst 

Edward  E.  Kidder 

Percy  MacKaye 

Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyie 

Louis  N.  Parker 

R.  C.  Carton 

Alfred  Sutro 

Richard  Harding  Davic 

Sir  Arthur  W.  Pinero 

Anthony  Hope 

Oscar  Wilde 

Haddon  Chamber* 

Jerome  K.  Jerome 

Cosmo  Gordon  Lennox 

H.  V.  Esmond 

Mark  Swan 

Grace  L.  Furniss 

Marguerite  Merrington 

Hermann  Sudermana 

Rida  Johnson  Young 

Arthur  Law 

Rachel  Crothers 

Martha  Morton 

H.  A.  Du  Souchet 

W.  W.  Jacobs 

Madeleine  Lucette  Ryley 


Booth  Tarkingtoei 
J.  Hartley  Manner* 
James  Forbes 
James  Montgomery 
Wm.  C.  de  Mille 
Roi  Cooper  Megme 
Edward  E.  Rose 
Israel  Zangwill 
Henry  Bernstein 
Harold  Brighouse 
Channing  Pollock 
Harry  Durant 
Winchell  Smith 
Margaret  Mayo 
Edward  Peple 
A.  E.  W.  Masoa 
Charles  Klein 
Henry  Arthur  Joaee* 
A.  E.Thomas 
Fred.  Ballard 
Cyril  Harcourt 
Carlisle  Moore 
Ernest  Denny 
Laurence  Housman 
Harry  James  Smith 
Edgar  Selwyn 
Augustin  McHugh 
Robert  Housum 
Charles  Kenyon 
C.  M.  S.  McLellen 


French's  International  Copyrighted  Edition  contain* 
plays,  comedies  and  farces  of  international  reputation; 
also  recent  professional  successes  by  famous  Ameri- 
can and  English  Authors. 

Send  a  four-cent  stamp  for  our  new  catalogue 
describing  thousands  of  plays. 

SAMUEL  FRENCH 

Oldest  Play  Publisher  in  the  World 
25  West  45th  Street  NEW  YORK  CITY 


